The Doc’s voice was thickening; he was sunk in his chair, blurry of eye and lax of mouth. Martin begged him to go to bed, but the Doc insisted:
“Don’t need nap. No. Now you lissen. You don’t appreciate but— Old man now. Giving you all I’ve learned. Show you collection. Only museum in whole county. Scientif’ pioneer.”
A hundred times had Martin obediently looked at the specimens in the brown, crackly-varnished bookcase: the beetles and chunks of mica; the embryo of a two-headed calf, the gall-stones removed from a respectable lady whom the Doc enthusiastically named to all visitors. The Doc stood before the case, waving an enormous but shaky forefinger.
“Looka that butterfly. Name is porthesia chrysorrhœa. Doc Needham couldn’t tell you that! He don’t know what butterflies are called! He don’t care if you get trained. Remember that name now?” He turned on Martin. “You payin’ attention? You interested? Huh? Oh, the devil! Nobody wants to know about my museum—not a person. Only one in county but— I’m an old failure.”
Martin asserted, “Honest, it’s slick!”
“Look here! Look here! See that? In the bottle? It’s an appendix. First one ever took out ’round here. I did it! Old Doc Vickerson, he did the first ’pendectomy in this neck of the woods, you bet! And first museum. It ain’t—so big—but it’s start. I haven’t put away money like Doc Needham, but I started first c’lection— I started it!”
He collapsed in a chair, groaning, “You’re right. Got to sleep. All in.” But as Martin helped him to his feet he broke away, scrabbled about on his desk, and looked back doubtfully. “Want to give you something—start your training. And remember the old man. Will anybody remember the old man?”
He was holding out the beloved magnifying glass which for years he had used in botanizing. He watched Martin slip the lens into his pocket, he sighed, he struggled for something else to say, and silently he lumbered into his bedroom.