“By ——, Dr. Munro, sir,” said he, “I’ve asked every —— man in Birchespool that’s got anything the matter with him. You’ll have the lot as patients within a week. There’s Fraser, who’s got a touch of Martell’s three star. He’s coming. And there’s Saunders, who talks about nothing but his spleen. I’m sick of his —— spleen! But I asked him. And there’s Turpey’s wound! This wet weather sets it tingling, and his own surgeon can do nothing but dab it with vaseline. He’ll be there. And there’s Carr, who is drinking himself to death. He has not much for the doctors, but what there is you may as well have.”
All next day he kept popping in to ask me questions about the dinner. Should we have clear soup or ox-tail? Didn’t I think that burgundy was better than port and sherry? The day after was the celebration itself, and he was in with a bulletin immediately after breakfast. The cooking was to be done at a neighbouring confectioner’s. The landlady’s son was coming in to wait. I was sorry to see that Whitehall was already slurring his words together, and had evidently been priming himself heavily. He looked in again in the afternoon to tell me what a good time we should have. So-and-so could talk well, and the other man could sing a song. He was so far gone by now, that I ventured (in the capacity of medical adviser) to speak to him about it.
It’s not the liquor, Dr. Munro, sir,” said he earnestly. It’s the —— relaxing air of this town. But I’ll go home and lie I’ll down, and be as fresh as paint to welcome my guests.”
But the excitement of the impending event must have been too much for him. When I arrived at five minutes to seven, Turpey, the wounded lieutenant, met me in the hall with a face of ill omen.
“It’s all up with Whitehall,” said he.
“What’s the matter?”
“Blind, speechless and paralytic. Come and look.”
The table in his room was nicely laid for dinner, and several decanters with a large cold tart lay upon the sideboard. On the sofa was stretched our unfortunate host, his head back, his forked beard pointing to the cornice, and a half finished tumbler of whisky upon the chair beside him. All our shakes and shouts could not break in upon that serene drunkenness.
“What are we to do?” gasped Turpey.
“We must not let him make an exhibition of himself. We had better get him away before any one else arrives.”