Langrishe is standing at the foot of Chesterton's bed, visibly pained by his friend's continued ill health. Perhaps knowing that his time is limited, Chesterton suggests that they attempt to cross the thoroughfare today so that he can see the new playhouse. Langrishe advises against it, but the old man wheezily insists. "You're the producer, Jack," he says. "You'll manage." With this, he goes into a serious hacking fit and Langrishe, after pausing to comfort him, goes quickly into the hall where he is confronted with Hearst, who is moaning in back pain. Langrishe pauses. "Forgive my presumption, sir," he says, officiously, waving his hand around his own back. "Have you lanceolate pains hereabouts?" Hearst looks slightly concerned that this colorful little man is speaking to him, but he cannot lie. "Yes," he says. "Intermittent, but sudden, sharp in the onset, occasioned by a tilt of a shoulder, a shift of weight?" Langrishe asks. Hearst is apparently not impressed with his diagnosis, and moves to unlock his door. "I may try ice-water dousing," he says, hoping to get away, but Langrishe won't have it. "Oooohhh," he groans, as if "ice water dousing" was tantamount to using leeches. "A German Doctor in Virginia City urged me to it," Hearst explains. "A vogue, if you would permit me to say, now quite exploded, even recognized as possibly harmful," Langrishe says, all dramatic. "The cold causing too rapid and painful a contraction of muscles already knotted in spasm." Hearst is intrigued by Langrishe's apparent knowledge of old-timey chiropractic medicine, especially when he says he is aware of a technique -- " taught me by a former Odabashi of the Turkish artillery, come himself to be afflicted through chronic lifting of cast-iron cannonballs" -- that can relieve his pain. Cannonballs! The big man is going for this in a big way. He asks Langrishe if he will treat him, and they decide to start later that day.

Downstairs, Langrishe tells the other members of the troupe to make arrangements for Chesterton's transport to the theater. Today's the day. "Will you help me?" the fruity Bellegard asks, and Langrishe gruffs him off with an Al-like response. "I've other fucking business," he says, and strides from the hotel.

Morgan is back at the Gem, chatting up a different whore when Johnny rolls up on him, holding a big gun.