“But what’s all that frothing at the mouth?” he continued; “and bless me! look at the abdomen!”
The region thus denominated exhibited the most unaccountable symptoms. A low, rumbling sound was heard; and a sort of undulation was discernible beneath the thin cotton frock.
“Colic, sir?” suggested a bystander.
“Colic be hanged!” shouted the physician; “who ever heard of anybody in a trance of the colic?”
During this, the patient lay upon his back, stark and straight, giving no signs of life except those above mentioned.
“I’ll bleed him!” cried Johnson at last—“run for a calabash, one of you!”
“Life ho!” here sung out Navy Bob, as if he had just spied a sail.
“What under the sun’s the matter with him!” cried the physician, starting at the appearance of the mouth, which had jerked to one side, and there remained fixed.
“Pr’aps it’s St. Witus’s hornpipe,” suggested Bob.
“Hold the calabash!”—and the lancet was out in a moment.