The feel of the coins brought everything back. Quickly he felt his pulse. It was slower than he had ever known it to be. Sure, there were times before when ... but then the doctor always had been nearby. And this time, the most serious time of all--he looked up at the Westboro sign--he was lost. Perhaps, up on the streets, he would recognize something. He began to take the stairs at a run, but his breath came too hard, and he walked the rest of the way to the turnstile. The arm caught tight as he started to go through and a sharp pain want through his groin. "That's the way you go _in_, pal," somebody offered, and the man winced at the few laughs he had drawn. He saw the exit sign and walked quickly toward it. The night lights were just ahead as he collided with a woman loaded with bundles. They spilled. "Sorry," he said, leaving her to her indignation, and at a faster pace he walked outside into the cool night air. * * * * * He had stopped walking and was leaning against the door of the Inn of Six Horses, which proudly displayed its name and namesakes in blue and white neon. He had recognized nothing. He had tried getting to the doctor's by cab, but no driver would listen to him without first seeing the fare, even though he assured them all that he could get it from the doctor. A policeman had told him to move along or suffer the consequences of a thick nightstick. A drugstore proprietor had answered his request to use the phone by threatening to call the policeman with the thick nightstick. A dime. One dime! He remembered his Shakespeare. My kingdom for a ... horse? Six horses. Maybe, just maybe, at the Inn of Six Horses.... A short man at the bar, composing one half of the clientele, was calling the bartender's attention to the fact that the six horses outside outnumbered the customers. "Go to blazes," the bartender commented on the short man's observation. "I should," said the short one. "Then George here would be Uncas, the last of the Mohicans, riding your six old white stallions." "How do you know they're stallions?" George said. He was lean, mean and weary, looking as if he had just returned from a hard day of peddling vacuum cleaners. The door banged shut and three pairs of eyes focused on a dirty man. "Here comes a touch," said Pete. "Please," said the man, his voice shaky and weak. "Before you go into your act, pal," Pete said, "understand this: Nobody gets nothing free here, this ain't no mission or nothing. This is a business like any place else." "A real thriving business," mocked Shorty. "Please, a dime, I need a dime, that's all I--" "A _dime_?" George laughed. "For what, a cup of coffee? This is a high-class place. Beer costs fifteen cents here." Shorty joined in with a snort. "Maybe he wants to call his girl." "I _need_ the dime," the man said, leaning on the bar for support. "A matter of real life and death, huh?" George said.