"Many, many thanks to Supreme Almighty," he ejaculated; then added, with distinct complacency, "you will find all things necessarily in order, sir. Segregationalism is being much carried out. Patient having passed through p--neumonic deliriums is now comatic and in articulo mortis."
I followed the doctor, who looked, as well he might, completely bewildered.
The dispensary was cleared out: saucers of disinfectants positively littered the ground. White sheets saturated with the same hung at every door; the smell of them stank in the nostrils, and, as I followed, a dank disagreeable wet flap from one of them on my cheek made me shiver; but the sight which met my eyes in the central room set me literally shaking with laughter. It was so inexpressibly comic.
Propped high on pillows, his face placid, composed, lay Job Charnock, snoring contentedly, while an empty brandy bottle beside him on the bed showed one cause at least of his somnolence. There he lay, peaceful as a baby, while the doctor, frowning at my inopportune laughter, turned angrily to the dresser.
"You cursed fool! The man's drunk. What the deuce do you mean by being such an ass." Then the comic side of the situation took him also, and he joined me in my merriment.
"By Jove," he chortled, "Segregation has done it this time."
There was no use attempting to awaken him for the moment, so the doctor turned on the dresser again. How had it come about? How had he allowed himself to be so imposed upon?
It was quite simple, even when clothed in the babu's best "middel-fail" English.
Segregation had come, had seen, had conquered. He had declared himself sick of the plague, and defied the dresser to deny it. He had thereupon taken possession of the dispensary, ordered the erection of the temporary sheds by enforced labour, cleared out the patients, used up all the disinfectants, and had then, but not till then, taken to his bed and drunk all the brandy! So "cometic symptoms supervening, and supplies of brandy exhausting," the dresser had appealed "through authentic sources for aid of the Almighty."
"Anyway, by Jove!" said the doctor, as he noted all the arrangements, "I couldn't have done it better myself. He has even"--he pointed to a row of men, evidently of the semi-savage Sansiya race, who were squatting in front of the village accountant's house--"set them to killing rats!"