"I don't guess, the life you lead. Got the headache, haven't you? Have it about half the time, now don't you, hey?" "Oh, I have a headache quite frequently, but I never pay any attention to it." "Well, you'd ought to. Don't you know the headache is just nature tipping you off there's something wrong inside? I've been watching you at the supper table for some time now. That pallor you got ain't natural pallor. You're pasty, that's right. I'll bet segars you wake up three mornings out of four feelin' like a dish of stewed prunes." "If I do--though of course I can only infer how such a dish feels--it is really of no consequence, I assure you." "Don't you fool yourself! It makes a lot of consequence to you. Ask a doctor, if you don't believe me. But I got your dia'nosis now, same as a medical man that's right. I know what's your trouble, Doc, just like you had told me yourself." "Ah? What, Mr. Klinker?" "Exercise." "You mean lack of exercise?" "I mean," said Klinker, "that you're fadin' out fast for the need of it." The two men pushed on up Centre Street, where the march of home-goers was now beginning to thin out, in a moment of silence. Queed glanced up at Klinker's six feet of red beef with a flash of envy which would have been unimaginable to him so short a while ago as ten minutes. Klinker was physically competent. Nobody could insult _his_ work and laugh at the merited retribution. "Come by my place a minute," said Klinker. "I got something to show you there. You know the shop, o' course?" No; Mr. Queed was obliged to admit that he did not. "I'm manager for Stark's," said Klinker, trying not to appear boastful. "Cigars, mineral waters, and periodicals. And a great rondy-vooze for the sporting men, politicians, and rounders of the town, if I do say it. I've seen you hit by the window many's the time, only your head was so full of studies you never noticed." "Thank you, I have no time this evening, I fear--" "Time? It won't take any--it's right the end of this block. You can't do any studyin' before supper-time, anyhow, because it's near that now. I got something for you there." They turned into Stark's, a brilliantly-lit and prettily appointed little shop with a big soda-water plant at the front. To a white-coated boy who lounged upon the fount, Klinker spoke winged words, and the next moment Queed found himself drinking a foaming, tingling, hair-trigger concoction under orders to put it all down at a gulp. They were seated upon a bench of oak and leather upholstery, with an enormous mirror reproducing their back views to all who cared to see. Klinker was chewing a tooth-pick; and either a tooth-pick lasted him a long time, or the number he made away with in a year was simply stupendous. "Ever see a gymnasier, Doc?" No; it seemed that the Doc had not.