squirmed, the liquid poured down onto the dusty carpet, a bird in a cage somewhere inside began to sing. Not until the bottle was empty and a released Lily May had shot down the steps and under the porch, did Dr. Dunham so much as glance at him again.
"One bad horse too many, eh, Tom?"
He forced a grin.
"You can call it that if you like, doc."
"And after you've allowed all that disinfected emasculated white-aproned crowd in the East to paw over you, you've come to me, eh?"
"They grabbed me when I couldn't fight back."
The doctor chuckled.
"Come in, Tom," he said. "Come on in and let's see what the sons of bitches have done to you."
He did not wash his hands, but, dirty as they were, they they were both skillful and kind as he cut off the bandages and poked here and there.
"Had pictures, of course?"
"Pictures! Sure, got an album full. Going to hand it to my kids, to show their friends. 'That's father's left leg at the age of twenty-eight!'"
He laughed, his throat tight, and the examination went on.
"What did those fellows say?"
"Oh, they cheered me up all they could; said it would always be stiff. Said I'd better learn a new trade."
The doctor stood up and glanced out the window.
"Well, what could you do?" he inquired.
Tom stared at him. His color slowly faded.
"That's all, is it?" he said slowly. "There's nothing to do? I don't care how far you go, doc. Dig in if you like, cut it open, cut it off—if you can't fix it."
"I'm not God. I can't make a new joint. And that one's gone."
He began in his business-like fashion to rebandage the leg, but he did not look up. In silence he finished, in silence Tom drew on his sock and his slipper. When that was done the old man disappeared, returning with a glass to take down a bottle from his shelves.
