“What cases!”
“There's two down here.”
“Down where?”
“Down here at my house.”
“Well, who the devil are you?”
“Bill Masters. We're afraid maybe it's smallpox.”
“Yes, yes!” snarled the doctor, “every pimple around here for the next three months will be smallpox.”
“Well, we want ye to diagnosis it, Doc.”
“All right. I'll ‘diagnosis’ it the first time I'm down that way—maybe this evening or tomorrow,” and he slammed the receiver up and went to bed.