As often as their duties permitted they
were together; sometimes at the office or in Dan's rooms; again, of an
evening, at Harry's home; or driving miles across country behind the bay
mare or big Jim--the physician to see a patient, and the minister to be
the "hitchin' post."
Harry was just turning from the telephone that evening when Dan entered
the house.
"Hello, parson!" he cried heartily. "I was just this minute trying to get
you. I couldn't think of anything to do to anybody else, so I thought I'd
have a try at you. That wasn't such a bad guess either," he added, when
he had a good look at his friend's face. "You evidently need to have
something fixed. What is it, liver?" He led the way into the library.
"Not mine," said Dan shortly. "I don't believe I have one."
He pushed an arm chair to face the doctor's favorite seat by the table.
Harry chuckled as he reached for his pipe and tobacco. "You don't need to
have one yourself in order to suffer from liver troubles. Speaking
professionally, my opinion is that you preachers, as a class, are more
likely to suffer from other people's livers than from your own, though
it is also true that the average parson has more of his own than he knows
what to do with."
"And what do you doctors prescribe when it is the other fellow's?" asked
Dan.
The other struck a match. "Oh, there's a difference of opinion in the
profession. The old Doctor, for instance, pins his faith to a split
bamboo with a book of flies or a can of bait.
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