"Well, Doctor," interpolated Mrs. Skelp, "I really come to see if you could give me a stifficut. We must do something-."
"A certificate of what?" demanded the doctor.
"To say 'e needs it—fur the good o' 'is 'ealth, you know. We can never go on like this. A little stifficut, Doctor, to say 'e needs it."
"Needs what?" exclaimed the doctor, yawning wearily.
"The beer," responded Mrs. Skelp. "This water will be the ruin of 'im, Doctor, and me, too. 'E gets so down'earted, Doctor, so solemn-minded, so short-spoken."
"I have already told you, Mrs. Skelp"—the Doctor put on his heaviest consulting-room manner—"I have already told you that your husband is probably better off without the beer. How, then, can you expect me—especially since I haven't seen him—to give you the certificate which you ask for? And what difference would it make if I did?"
"'E wouldn't go against the doctor's orders, sir. Skelp is not that sort of man. 'E knows 'is place, sir. I on'y got to show him a brief from you, Doctor, to say that what he wants is so many pints to nourish 'is system, and there would be a end to all this nonsense. A drayman must 'ave beer, Doctor."
"A drayman must have nothing of the sort, Mrs. Skelp. What a drayman must have is plenty of rump steak and jam roll and a quiet life and a jolly time. Why do you want him to have this beer? Are you any better off when he does have it? The more he spends on beer the less there is for the home, you know."
"Mine ain't that sort," asserted Mrs. Skelp, with a touch of asperity in her tone: "I keep Skelp's money. What he wants—is beer. The man's got that down-'earted 'e isn't fit to live with. A drayman must 'ave beer."
Dr. Brink inspected his watch again. "Well, Mrs. Skelp," he said, "you've had more than your share of my time. Send him round to-morrow evening, and I'll tell you what I think about it. Good-night."