Item: A young gentleman with the hiccoughs. Was feeling suicidal. How was his appetite? Shocking, shocking! Digestion in good order? On the contrary, it was shocking bad. What sort of nights? Shocking! Spirits low? Shocking low. Did his head ache? Shockingly. Food taste dull? Absolutely shocking. Young gentleman receives some advice on the subject of alcoholic excess and a bottle of water, fortified by harmless colouring matter. Young gentleman departs.
Item: Tired woman with baby in convulsions. Baby's dietary discussed. Woman indignant. "Why," she declares, "'e 'as the very same as us!" Baby dismissed with a powder.
Item: Slow-spoken man with a jellied thumb. "Door jamb," he explains. "Want a stifficut. Works at the Brewery. Want another stifficut for the Insurance. 'Urry up. 'Ow much? Good-day."
Then an old woman came in—a very old woman, with rosy cheeks and a clean apron, and querulous, childish eyes.
"I want some morphium," she says, "to soothe meself down. Not that I got a right to look for much—at my age."
The doctor became jocular. "What!" he cried. "A fine woman like you? Morphia for you? What? With those cheeks? What?"
"I ain't got no happetite," said the old woman. "And there's shooting pains in me 'ead, and I don't sleep proper, and I seems to feel lonesome, and I wants some morphium to soothe meself down with."
"What's your favourite dinner dish?" inquired our inconsequent wag of a doctor.
"I ain't got no favourites," replied the woman. "I'm old, I am; what should I do with favourites at my age? I want some morphium to soothe meself down."
"What is your age—sixty?"