"They sent for me to see what I thought you needed—not to take your orders for a drug. I am not an apothecary."
"More's the pity!" returned Flint, flouncing across to the inner side of the bed, and turning his back unceremoniously upon his visitor.
Dr. Cricket received this demonstration with unconcern. He took out his thermometer and shook it against his wrist. Then resting one knee on the bed he thrust the thermometer into his recalcitrant patient's mouth, saying: "Don't crunch on it, unless you want your mouth full of glass, and your belly full of mercury. Now for the pulse. Ah! too fast—I expected as much."
He took out the thermometer and held it to the light. "Over one hundred—see here, young man, it's well you sent for me when you did."
"I wish I hadn't."
"So do I, from a professional point of view. Nothing so good for doctors' business as delay in sending for us. As it is, I fear I can't conscientiously [Pg 38] make more than two calls, or keep you in bed after to-morrow."
"But what are you going to do for this accursed pain in the head?"
"Oh, that's of no consequence—only a symptom. It's the fever that worries me."
"Oh, it is—is it? Well, it is the pain that worries me, and if you don't do something about it, I'll fire your old bottles out of the window."
"Very good. Then I will send back to Mrs. White's for more bottles and a straight-jacket to boot—"