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    Internes Can’t Take Money
    Internes Can’t Take Money
    Internes Can’t Take Money
    Ebook30 pages24 minutes

    Internes Can’t Take Money

    By Max Brand

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    About this ebook

    Jimmy Kildare met from the hospital every day and arrived at Tom McGuire’s lounge on the avenue. He always drank two mugs of beer. But one from the other, there should be a brain at the fingertips all day long, but two beers are not too far between man and themselves, if it has bumps on shoulders, and Jimmy Kildare had.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherKtoczyta.pl
    Release dateFeb 11, 2018
    ISBN9788381369268
    Internes Can’t Take Money
    Author

    Max Brand

    Max Brand® (1892–1944) is the best-known pen name of widely acclaimed author Frederick Faust, creator of Destry, Dr. Kildare, and other beloved fictional characters. Orphaned at an early age, he studied at the University of California, Berkeley. He became one of the most prolific writers of our time but abandoned writing at age fifty-one to become a war correspondent in World War II, where he was killed while serving in Italy.

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      Book preview

      Internes Can’t Take Money - Max Brand

      Max Brand

      Internes Can’t Take Money

      Warsaw 2018

      Contents

      JIMMY KILDARE used to get away from the hospital every afternoon and go over to Tom McGuire’s saloon on the avenue. He always drank two beers. An interne in the accident room has to have the brains in his fingertips in good order all day long, but two beers don’t get very far between a man and himself if he has a bit of head on his shoulders, and Jimmy Kildare had.

      McGuire’s saloon was comfortable in a dark, dingy way. The sawdust was swept out only once in two days, and the floors were never scrubbed except the evening before Election Day. Just the same, it was a good place. It made Jimmy Kildare think of the barn out on the old farm. The faces of the bums and crooks and yeggs who lined up at the bar were sour, just like the faces of the cows and horses that were lined along the mangers of the barn–long, and all the lines running down except for their arched eyebrows with the fool look of the cows.

      When Jimmy Kildare leaned an elbow on the worn varnish of McGuire’s saloon, it was always easier for him to think of home. The future to him was a great question mark, and New York was the emptiness inside the loop of the mark. Add a few strokes to the question mark and you get a dollar sign.

      Jimmy Kildare used to think about that but he never dared to think very far because, when he began to dream, he always saw himself back on the farm in the frosty stillness of an autumn morning where every fence post and every wet rock said to him, Jimmy, what are you doing away back here?

      The only times that he escaped entirely from those dreams were when he was working at the operating table, all scrubbed up and masked and draped in white.

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