Wiggins (aside). Oh, dear! I see it all. I’m a doomed man. It’s all up with me. But I must appear calm. (Trembles violently.) Wh-wh-wh-at d-d-d-o you w-w-want?
Harry. Are you the physician?
Wiggins. Yes. That is—no—no—oh! Blood! Blood! Blood!
Harry. Blood? I thought it was Wiggins.
Wiggins. It is. It is Wh-Wh-Wh-ig-ig-ins.
Harry. I have a nervous affection for which I wish to be doctored. A spasmodic moving of the arm at times.
Wiggins. Yes, I know. “At the dread hour of midnight.”
Harry. What shall I do for it?
Wiggins (fiercely). Go home, put your head in a basin of gruel—no—no; put a basin of gruel on your feet and—The dread hour of midnight! Oh! oh! (Sinks into a chair.)
Harry. Why, what’s the matter?