“Come by my place a minute,” said Klinker.  “I got something to show you there.  You know the shop, o’ course?”

No; Mr. Queed was obliged to admit that he did not.

“I’m manager for Stark’s,” said Klinker, trying not to appear boastful.  “Cigars, mineral waters, and periodicals.  And a great rondy-vooze for the sporting men, politicians, and rounders of the town, if I do say it.  I’ve seen you hit by the window many’s the time, only your head was so full of studies you never noticed.”

“Thank you, I have no time this evening, I fear—­”

“Time?  It won’t take any—­it’s right the end of this block.  You can’t do any studyin’ before supper-time, anyhow, because it’s near that now.  I got something for you there.”

They turned into Stark’s, a brilliantly-lit and prettily appointed little shop with a big soda-water plant at the front.  To a white-coated boy who lounged upon the fount, Klinker spoke winged words, and the next moment Queed found himself drinking a foaming, tingling, hair-trigger concoction under orders to put it all down at a gulp.

They were seated upon a bench of oak and leather upholstery, with an enormous mirror reproducing their back views to all who cared to see.  Klinker was chewing a tooth-pick; and either a tooth-pick lasted him a long time, or the number he made away with in a year was simply stupendous.

“Ever see a gymnasier, Doc?”

No; it seemed that the Doc had not.

“We got one here.  There’s a big spare room behind the shop.  Kind of a store-room it was, and the Mercuries have fitted it up as a gymnasier and athletic club.  Only they’re dead ones and don’t use it much no more.  Got kind of a fall this afternoon, didn’t you, Doc?”

“What makes you think that?”

“That eye you got.  She’ll be a beaut to-morrow—­skin’s broke too.  A bit of nice raw beefsteak clapped on it right now would do the world and all for it.”

“Oh, it is of no consequence—­”

“You think nothing about your body is consequence, Doc, that only your mind counts, and that’s just where you make your mistake.  Your body’s got to carry your mind around, and if it lays down on you, what—­”

“But I have no intention of letting my body lie down on me, as you put it, Mr. Klinker.  My health is sound, my constitution—­”

“Forget it, Doc.  Can’t I look at you and see with my own eyes?  You’re committing slow suicide by over-work.  That’s what it is.”

“As it happens, I am doing nothing of the sort.  I have been working exactly this way for twelve years.”

“Then all the bigger is the overdue bill nature’s got against you, and when she does hit you she’ll hit to kill.  Where’ll your mind and your studies be when we’ve planted your body down under the sod?”

Mr. Queed made no reply.  After a moment, preparing to rise, he said:  “I am obliged to you for that drink.  It is rather remarkable—­”