“Why, there goes nine o’clock.”
“What, so late!” exclaimed one counsellor, looking at his gold repeater.
“We must go or we’ll miss the return train,” remarked the other; “the doctor here will manage the patient H., who’s only got the hypo badly,” he added.
“Is that a bust of Pallas he has over his secretary yonder?” asked the first, discovering the boy for the first time.
“I’m afraid Dr. —— has got a little muddled over this excellent ‘Old Port,’ that he can’t see clearly. Why, that’s a bust of Cupid.”
“Well,” exclaimed the local physician, “I have been here a hundred times, and never before observed that statue; but,” eying the statue fixedly, he continued, “it looks neither like Pallas nor Cupid, but rather favors H., and I guess it is a cast he has had recently made of himself.”
Through all this comment and inspection the boy sat as mute as a post; but the moment the door closed on the retiring doctors, he clambered down and ran into the sick room.
A “HYPO” PATIENT DISCHARGING HIS PHYSICIAN.
The old doctor had slipped the customary fee into the hands of his brethren as he bade them good night, and entered the room of his patient. The latter instantly inquired as to the result of the consultation. The doctor entered into an elaborate account of the “diagnosis” and “prognosis” of the case, which was suddenly brought to a close by the little boy, who, climbing into a chair on the opposite side of the bed, asked his father what a “hypo” was.