"DOC" SHIPMAN'S FEE
It was in the Doctor's own office that he told me this story. He has
told me a dozen more, all pulled from the rag-bag of his experience,
like strands of worsted from an old-fashioned reticule. Some were
bright-colored, some were gray and dull--some black; most of them, in
fact, sombre in tone, for the Doctor has spent much of his life climbing
up the rickety stairs of gloomy tenements. Now and then there comes out
a thread of gold which he weaves into the mesh of his talk--some gleam
of pathos or heroism or unselfishness, lightening the whole fabric. This
kind of story he loves best to tell.
The Doctor is not one of your new-fashioned doctors quartered in a
brownstone house off the Avenue, with a butler opening the door; a pair
of bob-tailed grays; a coupe with a note-book tucked away in its pocket
bearing the names of various millionnaires; an office panelled in oak; a
waiting-room lined with patients reading last month's magazines until he
should send for them.
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