“Here Pat left me, saying, ‘The ixcillint doctor will be to see yeze ferninst he gits through wid the gintleman who was before your honor.’
“AN’ WHO’LL YEZE LIKE TO SEE, SURE?”
“I took a look about the room. The partitions on two sides were temporary. On one side of the apartment stood an old mahogany secretary. Through the dingy glass doors I took a peep. The shelves contained several volumes of ‘Patent Office Reports,’ odd numbers of an old London magazine, and such like useless works. On the walls were a few soiled cheap anatomical plates, such as you will see in ‘galleries’ or ‘museums’ fitted up by quack doctors, to intimidate the beholder. I could look no farther, as the door opened, and a man entered, who, looking nervously around, at once asked my business.
“‘Are you Dr. A.?’ I asked.
“‘I am. Please be seated. You are sick—very sick,’ he said hurriedly, and in a manner intended to frighten me.
“Five minutes’ conversation satisfied us both—him that I had no money, and me that he had no skill. After vainly endeavoring to extort from me my present address, he unceremoniously showed me out.
“As I closed the door I looked to the name and number, and, as I had anticipated, found myself at Dr. B.’s entrance.
“Turning up my coat collar, and tying a large colored silk handkerchief over the lower part of my face, I knocked at the third door, Dr C.’s.
“The same Irishman thrust out his uncombed head and unwashed face; the same words in the same vernacular language followed.