“Have you swallowed it all?”
“No; I could not take but half of it at once.”
“No more than half! My order was the whole,” exclaimed the doctor.
“Ah! now, friend,” said the Abbe, “how could you expect me to swallow a quart at a time, when I hold only a pint?”
Drowning a Fever.
As the next anecdote has had to do service for more than one physician, it is immaterial which doctor it was. He was an irascible old fellow, at least, and not at all careful in leaving orders.
“Your husband is very sick, woman,” said the doctor to the wife of an Irish laborer. “His fever is high, and skin as dry as a fish, or a parish contribution box. You must give him plenty of cold water, all he will drink, and to-night I’ll see him again. There, don’t come snivelling around me. My heart is steeled against that sort of thing. But, as you want something to cry for, just hear me. Your husband isn’t going to die! There, now, I know you are disappointed, but you brought it on to yourself.” Going away—“Mind, lots of water—”
“Wather, sir! Hoo much wather, docther dear? He shall have it, but, yer honor didn’t tell me hoo much wather I must give him.”
“Zounds, woman, haven’t I told you to give him all he will take? Hoo much? Give him a couple of buckets full, if he will swallow them. Do you hear now? Two buckets full.”
“The Lord bless yer honor,” cried the woman; and the doctor made his escape.