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.

Ed's lapses from surgical cleanliness were a sore trial to the younger man,
fresh from the clinics of Europe. In his downtown office, to which he
would presently make his leisurely progress, he wore a white coat, and
sterilized things of which Dr. Ed did not even know the names.