On the morning after Sidney had invited K. Le Moyne to take her to walk,

Max Wilson came down to breakfast rather late. Dr. Ed had breakfasted an

hour before, and had already attended, with much profanity on the part of

the patient, to a boil on the back of Mr. Rosenfeld's neck.

"Better change your laundry," cheerfully advised Dr. Ed, cutting a strip of

adhesive plaster. "Your neck's irritated from your white collars."

Rosenfeld eyed him suspiciously, but, possessing a sense of humor also, he


"It ain't my everyday things that bother me," he replied. "It's my

blankety-blank dress suit. But if a man wants to be tony--"


"Tony" was not of the Street, but of its environs. Harriet was "tony"

because she walked with her elbows in and her head up. Dr. Max was "tony"

because he breakfasted late, and had a man come once a week and take away

his clothes to be pressed. He was "tony," too, because he had brought back

from Europe narrow-shouldered English-cut clothes, when the Street was

still padding its shoulders. Even K. would have been classed with these

others, for the stick that he carried on his walks, for the fact that his

shabby gray coat was as unmistakably foreign in cut as Dr. Max's, had the

neighborhood so much as known him by sight. But K., so far, had remained in

humble obscurity, and, outside of Mrs. McKee's, was known only as the

Pages' roomer.

Mr. Rosenfeld buttoned up the blue flannel shirt which, with a pair of Dr.

Ed's cast-off trousers, was his only wear; and fished in his pocket.

"How much, Doc?"

"Two dollars," said Dr. Ed briskly.

"Holy cats! For one jab of a knife! My old woman works a day and a half

for two dollars."

"I guess it's worth two dollars to you to be able to sleep on your back."

He was imperturbably straightening his small glass table. He knew

Rosenfeld. "If you don't like my price, I'll lend you the knife the next

time, and you can let your wife attend to you."

Rosenfeld drew out a silver dollar, and followed it reluctantly with a limp

and dejected dollar bill.

"There are times," he said, "when, if you'd put me and the missus and a

knife in the same room, you wouldn't have much left but the knife."

Dr. Ed waited until he had made his stiff-necked exit. Then he took the

two dollars, and, putting the money into an envelope, indorsed it in his

illegible hand. He heard his brother's step on the stairs, and Dr. Ed

made haste to put away the last vestiges of his little operation.

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