A DANGEROUS PRESCRIPTION.
“Sober as a judge. What—hic—do you want?” he would reply.
Mr. B., who had been a long time confined to his house, under the care of an old fogy doctor, one of the “Gods of Medicine,” with whom all knowledge remains, and with whom all knowledge dies, after taking nearly all the drugs contained in his Materia Medica, decided to change, and sent for Dr. Gallup.
“Are you drunk, or sober, doctor?” was the first salutation.
“Sober as a judge. What’s wanted?” was the reply, omitting the “hic.”
“Can you cure me? I’ve been blistered and parboiled, puked and physicked, bled in vein and pocket for the last three months. Now, can you cure me?”
Gallup looked over the case, and the medicine left by the other doctor, threw the latter all out of the window, ordered a nourishing diet, told Mr. B. to take no more drugs, took his fee, and left. Mr. B. recovered without another visit.
