is practically the same thing as being a Democrat in Texas or a
Presbyterian in Scotland.

"Y will never do for you," said Doctor X, when I had rallied
somewhat from the shock of these disclosures. "I would suggest
that you go to Doctor Z, at such-and-such an address. You are
exactly in Z's line. I'll let him know that you are coming and
when, and I'll send him down my diagnosis."

So that same afternoon, the appointment having been made by
telephone, I went, full of quavery emotions, to Doctor Z's place.
As soon as I was inside his outer hallway, I realized that I was
nearing the presence of one highly distinguished in his profession.

A pussy-footed male attendant, in a livery that made him look like
a cross between a headwaiter and an undertaker's assistant, escorted
me through an anteroom into a reception-room, where a considerable
number of well-dressed men and women were sitting about in strained
attitudes, pretending to read magazines while they waited their
turns, but in reality furtively watching one another.

I sat down in a convenient chair, adhering fast to my hat and my
umbrella. They were the only friends I had there and I was
determined not to lose them without a struggle. On the wall were
many colored charts showing various portions of the human anatomy
and what ailed them. Directly in front of me was a very thrilling
illustration, evidently copied from an oil painting, of a liver
in a bad state of repair. I said to myself that if I had a liver
like that one I should keep it hidden from the public eye--I would
never permit it to sit for it's portrait. Still, there is no