Warner abruptly turned his back, snatched out his handkerchief, and held it tightly to his nose.
Joseph Johnson, mistaking for emotion the queer little sounds which Warner did not entirely succeed in smothering with his handkerchief, sniffed and blinked his small eyes sympathetically, murmuring "de-mort-nil-ni-bum."
When Warner had regained his self-control he asked the black man what he wanted.
"Sir, I am credibly informed that you are a distinguished member of a profession which has my humble but unqualified admiration and regard for what can be nobler than the unselfish alleviation in others of the ills to which this weak flesh of ours is heir need I say the medical profession?"
"What then?"
"I suffer your honour from a slight but painful derangement of the vocal chords which hinders my fluency of enunciation and so disturbs my mental process as to detract from the strength of my disputations and dissertations."
"You mean you have a sore throat?"
"Sir, you grasp my meaning."
"You want some medicine for it?"
"Sir, if I might so far encroach upon your generosity...."