Mr. Pushington. Oh, yes, Whipster, I want you to be my confidential butler, and show the patients in.
[Mr. W. accepts—with a view to showing Pushington that other people can act as well as he.
AFTER THE SECOND SYLLABLE.
Mr. Pushington. Seemed to drag a little, somehow! There was no necessity for you to make all those long soliloquies, Whipster. A Doctor's confidential servant wouldn't chatter so much!
Mr. Whipster. You were so confoundedly solemn over it, I had to put some fun in somewhere!
Mr. P. Well, you might have put it where some one could see it. Nobody laughed.
Professor Pollen. I don't know, Mr. Pushington, why, when I was describing my symptoms—which I can vouch for as scientifically correct—you persisted in kicking my legs under the table—it was unprofessional, Sir, and extremely painful!
Mr. Pushington. I was only trying to hint to you that as there were a dozen other people to follow, it was time you cut the interview short, Professor—that one syllable alone has taken nearly an hour.
Miss Buckram. If I had known the kind of questions you were going to ask me, Mr. Pushington, I should certainly not have exposed myself to them. I say no more, but I must positively decline to appear with you again.
Mr. Pushington. Oh, but really, you know, in Charades one gets carried away at times. I assure you, I hadn't the remotest (&c., &c.—until Miss Buckram is partly mollified.) Now then—last syllable. Look here, I'll be a regular impostor, don't you know, and all of you come on and say what a liar I am. We ought to make that screamingly funny!