"And doesn't suffer more than three days a week," finished Gimp, in a depressed tone.
"Oh, she's not quite cured, then," observed his master, regretfully; "it must have been the gin. Gin is so very bad."
"Very bad, sir," replied Gimp, like a parrot.
"It makes the eyes moist."
Mr. Gimp closed his own eyes tightly, aware that they betrayed him; but his master was too busy with his own ailments to trouble about the looks of any one else, and went on carefully with his measuring.
"Eight," he said, handing the bottle back to Gimp, "I think that will do for a beginning. How many diseases does it cure, did you say?"
"Seven," said Gimp, drearily; "liver, rheumatism, headache, bed sores, nerves, consumption, and delirious trimmings."
"Quite an all-round medicine. I've got a liver, and I often have a headache. I had rheumatism the winter before last; my nerves, of course, I always have. Bed sores? No, I've not had bed sores—yet."
"Not been in bed long enough, sir, I think," hinted Gimp, respectfully.
"No, quite right; but I may come to it. Consumption? Well, you know, Gimp, I'm not quite sure of my lung? What's the last?"