Somebody brought it.
“Tonsilitis,” said Burleson, briefly. “I’ll send you something to-night?”
“Be you a doctor?” demanded Santry, hoarsely.
“Was one. I’ll fix you up. Go home; and don’t kiss your little girl. I’ll drop in after breakfast.”
Two things were respected in Fox Cross-roads—death and a doctor—neither of which the citizens understood.
But old man Santry, struggling obstinately with his awe of things medical, rasped out, “I ain’t goin’ to pay no doctor’s bills fur a cold!”
“Nobody pays me any more,” said Burleson, laughing. “I only doctor people to keep my hand in. Go home, Santry; you’re sick.”
Mr. Santry went, pausing at the door to survey the gathering with vacant astonishment.
Burleson paid for the knife, bought a dozen stamps, tasted the cheese and ordered a whole one, selected three or four barrels of apples, and turned on his heel with a curt good-night.
“Say!” broke out old man Storm as he reached the door; “you wasn’t plannin’ to hev the law on Abe, was you?”