"But how about the symptoms?" said I, impatiently.
"Well," he answered, "in the fust place her temperature is ninety-eight and a half, and that's about nat'ral, I take it."
"Yes," I said, "but you didn't tell me about her tongue and pulse."
"There wasn't nothin' remarkable about them," said he.
"All of which means," I remarked, "that there is no fever. But that is not at all a necessary accompaniment of brain derangements. How about the dilatation of her pupils?"
"There isn't none," said Uncle Beamish; "they are ruther squinched up, if anything. And as to delirium, I couldn't see no signs of it, and when I asked the old lady about the numbness, she said she didn't believe there had been any."
"No tendency to shiver, no disposition to stretch?"
"No," said the old man, "no chance for quinine."
"The trouble is," said I, standing before the stove and fixing my mind upon the case with earnest intensity, "that there are so few symptoms in brain derangement. If I could only get hold of something tangible—"
"If I was you," interrupted Uncle Beamish, "I wouldn't try to get hold of nothin'. I would just give her somethin' to keep her where she is till mornin'. If you can do that, I'll guarantee that any good doctor can take her up and go on with her to-morrow."