"Oh, quite," assented Mr. Cavendish. "What I mean to say is, of course not. But when I take over the practice, I shall run an assistant: one of those middle-aged Scotch chaps, you know, with a turn-down collar. A chap can afford to have one of those beggars if he's doing twelve hundred—especially when he's a bachelor—what? Ha! Ha! ... I shall let my assistant do most of the night-work and the confinements, and all that sort of thing. I'm a consulting-room man, really."
The other practitioner merely smiled. "I suppose," continued Mr. Cavendish, "that you don't give these beggars anything very special in the way of drugs. No elaborate gout cures—what? Ha! Ha!"
"It's a faith-cure practice almost entirely," replied the doctor, winking at your servant.
"Oh," said Mr. Cavendish, a little coldly. "Of course, I should run the show on dignified lines. They'll have everything in reason. I shall do my own dispensing. You can be sure that they get the right stuff then—what?"
Again the doctor merely smiled.
"And now," said Mr. Cavendish, rising from his chair, "I shall have to clear out. Got to dine with a couple of chaps at some beastly club. I think this will suit me very well, Doctor; just the thing I've been looking for—a quiet, steady practice to keep a chap goin' while he's reading for these rotten law exams. You'll hear from my pater, I expect. Of course, your price is pretty stiff, but I'll tell my father what I think about the show, and no doubt he'll consider it. So long, Doctor."
"So long," said Doctor Brink, and James, and I.
"And now," said Doctor Brink, as he reached for a long glass, "supposing we consider it?"
"I have considered it," said James. "We are going to stop."
"Why?" exclaimed the doctor.