It seemed to me he looked pale, that boy.
"Aren't you well, Dan?" I said.
"I don't know what's the matter with me, sir. I guess it must be the
night work."
I gave him a five-dollar bill and made him write down 1892 Eighth Avenue
on a piece of paper.
"You go and see Doctor Jones first thing," I said. "And don't mention my
name, nor spend the money on _Her Mad Marriage_."
I jumped into a hansom with a pleasant sense that I was beginning to
make the fur fly.
"That's a horrible cold of yours, Cabby," I said as we stopped at the
bishop's door and I handed him up a dollar bill. "That's just the kind
of a cold that makes graveyards hum!"
"I can't shake it off, sir," he said despondently. "Try what I can, and
it's never no use!"
"There's one doctor in the world who can cure anything," I said; "Doctor
Henry Jones, 1892 Eighth Avenue. I was worse than you two weeks ago, and
now look at me! Take this five dollars, and for heaven's sake, man, put
yourself in his hands quick."
Bishop Jordan was a fine type of modern clergyman.
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