Doctors were always saying things like that--sweeping
things which nervous people took too literally. It was true that
he had been in pretty bad shape at the moment when the words had
been spoken. It was just at the end of his Broadway career, when,
as he handsomely admitted, there was a certain amount of truth in
the opinion that his interior needed a vacation. But since then he
had been living in the country, breathing good air, taking things
easy. In these altered conditions and after this lapse of time it
was absurd to imagine that a moderate amount of alcohol could do
him any harm.
It hadn't done him any harm, that was the point. He had tested the
doctor's statement and found it incorrect. He had spent three
hectic days and nights in New York, and--after a reasonable
interval--had felt much the same as usual. And since then he had
imbibed each night, and nothing had happened. What it came to was
that the doctor was a chump and a blighter. Simply that and
nothing more.
Having come to this decision, Nutty mixed another drink. He went
to the head of the stairs and listened. He heard nothing. He
returned to his room.
Yes, that was it, the doctor was a chump. So far from doing him
any harm, these nightly potations brightened Nutty up, gave him
heart, and enabled him to endure life in this hole of a place.
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