“They all want to get well, don’t they?
You do your best to cure them, don’t you?”
“No,” said Coker.
“Not always.
But I’ll grant that I’m supposed to.
What of it?”
“You must all think that it’s about something,” said Ben, “or you wouldn’t do it!”
“A man must live, mustn’t he?” said Coker with a grin.
“That’s what I’m asking you, Coker.
Why must he?”
“Why,” said Coker, “in order to work nine hours a day in a newspaper office, sleep nine hours, and enjoy the other six in washing, shaving, dressing, eating at the Greasy Spoon, loafing in front of Wood’s, and occasionally taking the Merry Widow to see Francis X.
Bushman.
Isn’t that reason enough for any man?
If a man’s hard-working and decent, and invests his money in the Building and Loan every week, instead of squandering it on cigarettes, coca-cola, and Kuppenheimer clothes, he may own a little home some day.”
Coker’s voice sank to a hush of reverence.
“He may even have his own car, Ben.
Think of that!
He can get in it, and ride, and ride, and ride.
He can ride all over these damned mountains.
He can be very, very happy.
He can take exercise regularly in the Y. M. C. A. and think only clean thoughts.
He can marry a good pure woman and have any number of fine sons and daughters, all of whom may be brought up in the Baptist, Methodist, or Presbyterian faiths, and given splendid courses in Economics, Commercial Law, and the Fine Arts, at the State university.
There’s plenty to live for, Ben.
There’s something to keep you busy every moment.”
“You’re a great wit, Coker,” Ben said, scowling.
“You’re as funny as a crutch.”
He straightened his humped shoulders self-consciously, and filled his lungs with air.
“Well, what about it?” he asked, with a nervous grin.
“Am I fit to go?”
“Let’s see,” said Coker deliberately, beginning to look him over.
“Feet — pigeon-toed, but good arch.”
He looked at Ben’s tan leathers closely.
“What’s the matter, Coker?” said Ben.
“Do you need your toes to shoot a gun with?”
“How’re your teeth, son?”
Ben drew back his thin lips and showed two rows of hard white grinders.
At the same moment, casually, swiftly, Coker prodded him with a strong yellow finger in the solar plexis.
His distended chest collapsed; he bent over, laughing, and coughed dryly.
Coker turned away to his desk and picked up his cigar.
“What’s the matter, Coker?” said Ben.
“What’s the idea?”
“That’s all, son.
I’m through with you,” said Coker.
“Well, what about it?” said Ben nervously.
“What about what?”
“Am I all right?”
“Certainly you’re all right,” said Coker.
He turned with burning match.
“Who said you weren’t all right?”
Ben stared at him, scowling, with fear-bright eyes.