e doctors
in our town wore whiskers.

I recall one old doctor down there in Kentucky who was practically
lurking in ambush all the time. All he needed was a few decoys out in
front of him and a pump gun to be a duck blind. He carried his calomel
about with him in a fruit jar, and when there was cutting job he
stropped his scalpel on his bootleg.

You see, in those primitive times germs had not been invented yet, and
so he did not have to take any steps to avoid them. Now we know that
loose, luxuriant whiskers are unsanitary, because they make such fine
winter quarters for germs; so, though the doctors still wear whiskers,
they do not wear them wild and waving. In the profession bosky whiskers
are taboo; they must be landscaped. And since it is a recognized fact
that germs abhor orderliness and straight lines they now go elsewhere to
reside, and the doctor may still retain his traditional aspect and yet
be practically germproof. Doctor X was trimmed in accordance with the
ethics of the newer school. He had trellis whiskers. So I went to see
him at his offices in a fashionable district, on an expensive side
street.

Before reaching him I passed through the hands of a maid and a nurse,
each of whom spoke to me in a low, sorrowful tone of voice, which seemed
to indicate that there was very little hope.

I reached an inner room where Doctor X was. He looked me over, while I
described for him as best I could what seemed to be the matter with
me, and asked me a number of intimate questions touching on the lives,
works, characters and peculiarities of my ancestors; after which he
made me stand up in front of him and take my coat off, and he punched
me hither and yon with his forefinger. He also knocked repeatedly on my
breastbone with his knuckles, and each time, on doing this, would apply
his ear to my chest and listen intently for a spell, afterward shaking
his head in a disappointed way. Apparently there was nobody at home. For
quite a time he kept on knocking, but without getting any response.

He then took my temperature and fifteen dollars, and said it was an
interesting case--not unusual exactly, but interesting--and that it
called for an operation.

From the way my heart and other organs jumped inside of me at that
statement I knew at once that, no matter what he may have thought, the
premises were not unoccupied. Naturally I inquired how soon he meant
to operate. Personally I trusted there was no hurry about it.