All Flesh Is Grass by Clifford D. Simak Page B

talked to me just before you came in.”
    â€œSay anything?”
    I shook my head. “Just nonsense.”
    Doc hauled a stethoscope out of his pocket and listened to Stiffy’s chest. He rolled Stiffy’s eyelids back and beamed a light into his eyes. Then he got slowly to his feet.
    â€œWhat’s the matter with him?” I asked.
    â€œHe’s in shock,” said Doc. “I don’t know what’s the matter. We’d better get him into the hospital over at Elmore and have a decent look at him.”
    He turned wearily and headed for the living room.
    â€œYou got a phone in here?” he asked.
    â€œOver in the corner. Right beside the light.”
    â€œI’ll call Hiram,” he said. “He’ll drive us into Elmore. We’ll put Stiffy in the back seat and I’ll ride along and keep an eye on him.”
    He turned in the doorway. “You got a couple of blankets you could let us have?”
    â€œI think I can find some.”
    He nodded at Stiffy. “We ought to keep him warm.”
    I went to get the blankets. When I came back with them, Doc was in the kitchen. Between the two of us, we got Stiffy all wrapped up. He was limp as a kitten and his face was streaked with perspiration.
    â€œDamn wonder,” said Doc, “how he keeps alive, living the way he does, in that shack stuck out beside the swamp. He drinks anything and everything he can get his hands on and he pays no attention to his food. Eats any kind of slop he can throw together easy. And I doubt he’s had an honest bath in the last ten years. It does beat hell,” he said with sudden anger, “how little care some people ever think to give their bodies.”
    â€œWhere did he come from?” I asked. “I always figured he wasn’t a native of this place. But he’s been here as long as I remember.”
    â€œDrifted in,” said Doc, “some thirty years ago, maybe more than that. A fairly young man then. Did some odd jobs here and there and just sort of settled down. No one paid attention to him. They figured, I guess, that he had drifted in and would drift out again. But then, all at once, he seemed to have become a fixure in the village. I would imagine that he just liked the place and decided to stay on. Or maybe lacked the gumption to move on.”
    We sat in silence for a while.
    â€œWhy do you suppose he came barging in on you?” asked Doc.
    â€œI wouldn’t know,” I said. “We always got along. We’d go fishing now and then. Maybe he was just walking past when he started to get sick.”
    â€œMaybe so,” said Doc.
    The doorbell rang and I went and let Hiram Martin in. Hiram was a big man. His face was mean and he kept the constable’s badge pinned to his coat lapel so polished that it shone.
    â€œWhere is he?” he asked.
    â€œOut in the kitchen,” I said. “Doc is sitting with him.”
    It was very plain that Hiram did not take to being drafted into the job of driving Stiffy in to Elmore.
    He strode into the kitchen and stood looking down at the swathed figure on the floor.
    â€œDrunk?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” said Doc. “He’s sick.”
    â€œWell, O.K.,” said Hiram, “the car is out in front and I left the engine running. Let’s heave him in and be on our way.”
    The three of us carried Stiffy out to the car and propped him in the back seat.
    I stood on the walk and watched the car go down the street and I wondered how Stiffy would feel about it when he woke up and found that he was in a hospital. I rather imagined that he might not care for it.
    I felt bad about Doc. He wasn’t a young man any longer and more than likely he’d had a busy day, and yet he took it for granted that he should ride with Stiffy.
    Once in the house again, I went into the kitchen and got out the coffee and went to the sink to fill the coffee pot, and there, lying on the counter