In old New York, in old New York,
The peach crop's always fine—
when the foldin' doors was slid back, and in comes the big surgeon gent we'd been waitin' for. You should have seen the look on him too, as he sizes up them three singin', and Rusty there on the table, a cigarette twisted up in his fingers, fightin' down a spasm.
"What blasted idiocy is this?" he growled.
"New kind of pain killer, doc.," says I. "Tell you all about it later. What you want to do now is get busy."
Well, that's the whole of it. He knew his book, that bone repairer did. He worked four hours steady, puttin' back into place the parts of Rusty that had got skewgeed; but when he rolls down his sleeves and quits he leaves a man that's almost as good as ever, barrin' a few months to let the pieces grow together.
I was out to see Rusty yesterday, and he's doin' fine. He's plannin', when he gets around again, to take the purse that was made up for him and invest it in airship stock.
"And if ever I make a million dollars, Shorty," says he, "I'm goin' to hand over half of it to that gent that sewed me up."
"Good!" says I. "And if I was you I'd chuck the other half at the song writers."