So saying, he covered the sick man with the wetted cloths, and bathed his hands in the cooling fluid.
“Now to exclude the light and save the brain from stimulation and excitation,” said Billy, with a pompous enunciation of the last syllables; “and then quies—rest—peace!”
And with this direction, imparted with a caution to enforce its benefits, he moved stealthily towards the door and passed out.
“What do you think of him?” asked the Corporal, eagerly.
“He 'll do—he 'll do,” said Billy. “He's a sanguineous temperament, and he'll bear the lancet. It's just like weatherin' a point at say. If you have a craft that will carry canvas, there's always a chance for you.”
“He perceived that you were not a doctor,” said Craggs, when they reached the corridor.
“Did he, faix?” cried Billy, half indignantly. “He might have perceived that I did n't come in a coach; that I had n't my hair powdered, nor gold knee-buckles in my smallcloths; but, for all that, it would be going too far to say that I was n't a doctor! 'T is the same with physic and poetry—you take to it, or you don't take to it! There's chaps, ay, and far from stupid ones either, that could n't compose you ten hexameters if ye'd put them on a hot griddle for it; and there's others that would talk rhyme rather than rayson! And so with the ars medicatrix—everybody has n't an eye for a hectic, or an ear for a cough—non contigit cuique adire Corintheum. 'T is n't every one can toss pancakes, as Horace says.”
“Hush—be still!” muttered Craggs, “here's the young master.” And as he spoke, a youth of about fifteen, well grown and handsome, but poorly, even meanly clad, approached them.
“Have you seen my father? What do you think of him?” asked he, eagerly.
“'Tis a critical state he's in, your honor,” said Billy, bowing; “but I think he 'll come round—deplation, deplation, deplation—actio, actio, actio; relieve the gorged vessels, and don't drown the grand hydraulic machine, the heart—them's my sentiments.”