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 realize that he was talking to someone, and, jerking back his head with an odd, intolerant gesture, he snapped out, “Well, what do you want?”

“How is he?” asked Bishwhang.

“Doggone sick…. Likely to be sicker.”

“He—he’s been poorly quite a spell.”

The doctor glared at Bishwhang. “I should say he had been poorly. Some folks never call a doctor till there hain’t work for anybody but an undertaker—and I ain’t such dammed bad company, neither.” With that he climbed into his buggy, snatched the reins from the crotch between whipsocket and dash and clucked to his horse.

“Hain’t he got a chance, Doc?”

“Alive yit, hain’t he? Anybody’s got a chance till he’s dead…. Who’s goin’ to git out the paper while he’s laid up? You two?” Doctor Knipe emitted a crackling syllable of laughter so dry one would not have been surprised to see a cloud of dust arising from his throat. “G’dap!” He shook the reins over his horse’s back and jogged away, bare-headed, coatless, a spectacle of professional dignity which would have shocked many another community—but, withal, the best loved, most implicitly trusted individual in that county.

Bishwhang and Jake resumed their sentry-go.