"Teenie! For God's sakes--quick! He's yellin' for you--"
"Coming, Mrs. Bostrum--coming--coming--coming!"
In a dawn that came up as pink as the palm of a babe, but flowed rather
futilely against the tired, speckled eye of incandescent bulb dangling
above the Granite Jaw's rumpled, tumbled bed of pain, a gray-looking
group stood in whispered conference beside a slit of window that
overlooked a narrow clapboard slit of street.
THE DOCTOR: Even with recovery, he will be on his back at least six
months.
MISS HOAG: Oh, my God! Doctor!
THE DOCTOR: Has the man means?
THE BARON: Not a penny. He only came to the concession two months ago
from a row with the Flying-Fish Troupe. He's in debt already to half
the exhibit.
THE LANDLADY: He's two weeks in arrears. Not that I'm pestering the poor
devil now, but Gawd knows I--need--
THE DOCTOR: Any relatives or friends to consult about the operation?
MISS HOAG (_turning and stooping_): 'Ain't you got no relations or
friends, Jastrow? What was it you hollered about the aerial-wonder act?
Are they friends of yours? 'Ain't you got no relatives, no--no friends,
maybe, that you could stay with awhile? Sid? Who's he? 'Ain't you,
Jastrow, got no relations?
The figure under the sheet, pain-huddled, limb-twisted, turned toward
the wall, palm slapping out against it.
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