DR. MORGAN (spluttering and growling Welsh, which he never did but in excitement).—"Pleed! Cott in heaven! do you think I am a putcher,—an executioner? Pleed! Never."
DR. DOSEWELL.—"I don't find it answer, myself, when both lungs are gone!
But perhaps you are for inhaling?"
DR. MORGAN.—"Fiddledee!"
DR. DOSEWELL (with some displeasure).—"What would you advise, then, in order to prolong our patient's life for a month?"
DR. MORGAN.—"Give him Rhus!"
DR. DOSEWELL.—"Rhus, sir! Rhus! I don't know that medicine. Rhus!"
Dr. MORGAN.—"Rhus Toxicodendron."
The length of the last word excited Dr. Dosewell's respect. A word of five syllables,—that was something like! He bowed deferentially, but still looked puzzled. At last he said, smiling frankly, "You great London practitioners have so many new medicines: may I ask what Rhus toxico—toxico—"
"Dendron."
"Is?"