Moreover, his body was heavy, sluggish, a soft mass of slow-moving flesh. It had lost its youthful grace. One felt, watching it, that the legs were no longer finely drawn, the stomach no longer lay quite flat, the joints were almost perceptibly swollen.
Ken returned to the apartment. He dropped upon a couch. He lay exhausted. Gebhardt had said, 'Til call Max Price about you." Ken had not talked again to Henry Colman. Now his muscles ached. Hard lumps seemed knotted in the leg he had lamed. His fingers probed the tendons. Scars were there but no tangible swelling. His eyes became heavy. Tommy brought him a glass of water.
"I'm sick," Ken murmured. "I think I really need a drink."
"Shall I buy some gin?" Tommy asked.
"No," Ken abruptly decided. "Go to the drug store and buy a few bromides. I'll try to sleep."
In the morning, his throat ached; he was still heavy lidded. His muscles were stiff. He postponed his appointment with Jimmy Pierce. He lay inert until past noon.
In the wise friendly face of Leo Murrell was understanding. He was more like a father—a real father—Ken thought, than a physician. Broadway's physician, he was called. Doctor to stars and to chorus people, skillful surgeon, his ear ever filled with intimate secrets, Leo Murrell occupied a unique place in the theatrical world. His apartment was divided into two parts, office and club. His door was never latched. Visitors dropped in at all hours. In a cabinet was liquor; ice in the kitchen. If Dr. Murrell was busy with his practise, the visitor might prepare his own drinks, meet Leo's friends, discuss pertinent affairs of the
