He had been a barber, and had gone directly from the razor to the
scalpel; but that did not matter: he had more calls in a week than Dr.
Lively had during the winter.

"The idea of being beaten by a barber!" exclaimed Mrs. Lively. "Why
don't you advertise yourself?"

"There's no paper here to advertise in."

"Then you ought to have a sign to tell people what you are--that you
were surgeon of volunteers in the army; that you had a good practice
in Chicago; that you're a graduate of two medical schools; that you
write for the medical journals and for the magazines. Why don't you
have these things put on a big sign?"

"It would be unprofessional."

"To be professional you must sit in that miserable office and let
your family starve. Why don't you denounce this upstart barber?--tell
people that he hasn't a diploma--that he doesn't know anything--that
he couldn't reduce that hernia and had to call on you?"

"That's opposed to all medical ethics."

"Medical fiddlesticks! You've got to sit here like a maiden, to be
wooed and won, and can't lift a finger or speak a word for yourself.
Then there's that woman with the broken arm--Joe Smith's wife. Why
shouldn't you tell that the barber didn't set it right, and that you
had to reset it? I saw some of Joseph Smith's grandchildren the other
day," she continued, suddenly changing the subject, "and I must say