At shorter and ever shortening intervals thereafter the booming baritone rendition of “The Cork Leg” apprised Our Square that the tailor was “on it again.” One late August day, as the doctor was passing the Home of Fashion, he heard from behind the closed door the sound of MacLachan's mirthless revelry. He stepped in and found the Scot, cross-legged and with a bottle at his elbow, rocking in time to his own melody while he stylishly braided mine host Schmidt's pants (“trousers” is an effete term not favored by Arbiter MacLachan) for the morrow's picnic and outing of the Pinochle Club:-- “One day when he'd stuffed him as full as an egg A poor relation came to beg, But he kicked him out without broaching a keg, And in kicking him out he broke his own leg. Ri-tu, di-nu, di--” “Shut up, Mac! Stop it.” “I've stopped. You've rooned my music. The noblest song, bar Bobbie Burns--What's yer wish, little mannie?” “I've some work for you.” “I've no time--” “It's important. I must surely have it to-morrow.” “'Must is a master word, but will not is no man's slave,'” pronounced MacLachan, the oracle. “Listen, Mac,” pleaded the other. “I've a consultation to-morrow, and I must have my other coat fixed up for it.” “What's wrong wi' the garrment?” “It's--it's ripped: torn across the skirt,” floundered the Little Red Doctor, who is a weak, unreliable prevaricator at best. The dour tailor leaned forward and shook his goose at the visitor. “Peril yer salvation with no more black lies about yer black coat,” said he firmly. “It's' the drink ye're strivin' to wean me from. But I'm proof against yer strategy, ye pill-an'-pellet Macchiavelli! Ye've no more rip nor tear in yer black coat than I've a ring in my nose.” “Well, I'd have made one, then,” returned the shameless doctor. “Ye'd have wasted time and money. Go yer own gait an' fight yer old friend, Death. But leave me with my friend, the Drink.” “Listen to me, Mac. As sure as you keep it up, just so sure the dissecting-room will get your kidneys and the devil will get your soul.” Carefully setting aside the bottle, MacLachan leaned forward to fasten a claw on the Little Red Doctor's shoulder. “Do _you_ listen now, and I'll tell ye a secret. While I'm still sober I'll tell it ye, so you'll believe it and fash me no more about the drink. Ye say the devil will get my soul. Ye're a backward prophet, mannie. He's got it. Yes, he's got it, an' another of the same blood to boot. An' all he ever gave me in trade is this,” he cried, pointing to the bottle. “So go an' save them as wants it, or stay an' listen:-- “'Mr. Doctor, says he, 'now you've done your work. By your sharp knife I lose one fork, But on two crutches I never will stalk, For I'll have a beautiful leg of cork.'” “Mac.” “Don't delay my work. I've to finish these pants before John Nelson comes to fetch me.” “Who's John Nelson?”