But the Smith baby is a very interesting study, and I can tolerate its father’s peculiar ways for the child’s sake, and for the interest the case affords me.
I lolled back in my favorite chair puffing the fragrant smoke in fantastic rings, carelessly aimed at the chandelier overhead, and revolving the case of the Smith baby in my mind. I do not know how long I sat there musing, but I finally fell into that half dreamy state which, with me, is a positive sign of an impending nap. Even my cigar was becoming sleepy and had begun to smolder. Being in no mood to tolerate interruption, I fear it was with some irritation that I shouted, in response to a timid rap at the door:
“Come in!”
The door opened, and in walked—Smith’s baby!
To say that I was astonished would be quite conventional, but measurably untrue, for—I was paralyzed. I think my visitor must have noticed the effect his unexpected entrance had upon me, for, after a deferential bow and a polite “Good evening,” he calmly awaited my pleasure. There was a quizzical expression in his eyes, and a pitying smile animated his curiously wrinkled face as I finally stammered:
“W—why, g—good evening, sir. This is quite—quite, ah—unexpected, you know.”
“And also unconventional, I presume,” said my caller. “It is not en regle, I believe, for people who are helpless to call upon the doctor. He is supposed to do all the calling himself. Patients who have sound legs and strength enough to walk are the only sort who are expected to visit their medical adviser. We will not consider those ‘has beens,’ who are sometimes so grateful to the doctor for helping them out of the world that they call upon him afterward o’ nights,” and the baby smiled sarcastically.
I do not believe in ghosts, yet I must confess that I blushed hotly at the implied unfair criticism of my noble profession.
My young friend noticed my confusion and said:
“Pardon me, I did not mean to be personal. There are doctors and doctors you know—and also spooks and things.”