As we walked along, the doctor carried his explanation a little further. "We shall have to take his clothes off," he observed. "If once we can get him undressed he's fixed for a week, because he cannot hold things steady, and he's fat, and his trousers are tight, and—oh, here we are."
A perfectly quiet and collected old lady received us on the doorstep. "He's cut 'isself this time," she announced; "fell agin the railings by the church. But he's very jolly and 'igh-sperited, Doctor, and I'm sure the sewing won't be any trouble to you. Is this your assistant?"
The doctor nodded. "Where is he?" he demanded.
"In 'is own old armchair," replied the woman. "Per'aps you'll get 'is clothes off, Doctor. It's on'y the trousers that matter. They'll puzzle 'im till Sunday this time, they will."
We found Mr. Binney in the situation reported. He received us with cheers and a poetic outburst.
"Dr. Brink,
Full of chink,
I don't think"—
he exclaimed; adding a personal couplet—
"I'm old Binney,
Not so damned skinny."
"Doctor," he continued, "'ave a drink?" Upon the doctor declining this offer, Mr. Binney chuckled loudly and extended—or tried to extend—an arm. "Feel me pulse, old buck," he shouted. "Let's see if you know yere business. If ye can feel old Binney's pulse I'll give you 'arf a dollar, 'cause I'll be damned if ole Binney kin feel it 'isself."
"Loss of feeling, eh?" said the doctor, in his suavest tone. "Ha! you'll feel this all right." With which words he inserted a surgical needle in Mr. Binney's cheek.