HOBSON. Aye.
DOCTOR. A serious case.
HOBSON. I know it's serious. What do you think you're here for? It isn't to tell me something I know already. It's to cure me.
DOCTOR. Very well. I will write you a prescription. (Produces notebook. Sits at table and writes with copying pencil.)
HOBSON. Stop that!
DOCTOR. I beg your pardon?
HOBSON. I won't take it. None of your druggist's muck for me. I'm particular about what I put into my stomach.
DOCTOR. Mr. Hobson, if you don't mend your manners, I'll certify you for a lunatic asylum. Are you aware that you've drunk yourself within six months of the grave? You'd a warning this morning that any sane man would listen to and you're going to listen to it, sir.
HOBSON. By taking your prescription?
DOCTOR. Precisely. You will take this mixture, Mr. Hobson, and you will practise total abstinence for the future.