“Munro,” he cried, “this practice is going to the devil!”
“Ah!” said I. “How’s that?
“It’s going to little pieces, Munro. I’ve been taking figures, and I know what I am talking about. A month ago I was seeing six hundred a week. Then I dropped to five hundred and eighty; then to five-seventy-five; and now to five-sixty. What do you think of that?”
“To be honest, I don’t think much of it,” I answered. “The summer is coming on. You are losing all your coughs and colds and sore throats. Every practice must dwindle at this time of year.”
“That’s all very well,” said he, pacing up and down the room, with his hands thrust into his pockets, and his great shaggy eyebrows knotted together. “You may put it down to that, but I think quite differently about it.”
“What do you put it down to, then?”
“To you.”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Well,” said he, “you must allow that it is a very queer coincidence—if it is a coincidence—that from the day when your plate was put up my practice has taken a turn for the worse.”
“I should be very sorry to think it was cause and effect,” I answered. “How do you think that my presence could have hurt you?”