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sidewalk scales. "The proprietor's a friend of mine," he said. "I can get you weighed free." Snoopington declined, and Fields steered him, over some protest, into the Black Pussy Gat. "Is it possible to get a light rye highball in here?" asked the examiner nervously. "You can get anything you want," Fields told him with municipal pride. "The place is a regular joint." To the bartender he called, "Have you seen Michael Finn lately?"
"I think I can find him for you, Mr. Souse," the bartender answered.
Snoopington was seized by a violent illness during his second drink. Filled with solicitude, Fields hurried him to his room at the New Old Lompoc House and called a physician, "Dr. Stall." As he telephoned, he absently plucked some crockery grapes from a table piece and crunched into them with a painful racket. Fields at this time was fresh from his own medical wrangles, and he worked hard to present the physician of The Bank Dick in a proper light. In the medical office, as the doctor answered the phone, was a male patient, nude to the waist but with a hat on, standing in an attitude of moribund dejection. "The first thing you'll have to do is cut out all health foods," the doctor was saying. "That'll be ten dollars. You'll get your clothes with a receipt."
In Snoopington's room, the doctor advised the examiner against all exercise and prescribed some pills about the size of golf balls that he'd brought in a jar. "Take these three nights running and then skip a night," he directed.
"But I thought you said no exercise," gasped the patient.
"The doctor's right, the doctor's right," Fields assured him, with an awful mockery of a bedside manner.
When the doctor left, he offered to get some food for the nauseated sufferer. "Some nice pork chops fried in grease," he
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