“Murder! murder!” cried Vince, in smothered tones, with the jersey over his head.
“Yes, I’ll give you murder! I’ll give you physic! How do you like that, and that, and that, Doctor?”
Each question was followed by a peculiar double knock on back or ribs.
“Don’t like it at all, Mike. Oh, I say, do leave off!”
“Shan’t. Don’t get such a chance every day. I’ll roast your ribs for you, my lad.”
“No, no: I give in. I’m done.”
“Ah! that sounds as if you didn’t feel sure. As your father says to me when I’m sick, I must give you another dose.”
“No, no, don’t, please,” cried Vince: “you hurt.”
“Of course I do. I mean it. How many times have you hurt me?”
“But it’s cowardly to give it to a fellow smothered up like I am.”