“Kase he doan ’quire but six, an’ he got ter steal ’em, fur ter make de conjurin’ wuk. Den ev’y day he th’ow ’way a ’tater, an’ when he th’ow de ’tater ’way he th’ow de gout ’way, too. De hy’ars from a black cat’s tail is mighty good, too—”
“Temple, how do you put up with this sort of thing being uttered in your hearing?” snapped the doctor.
General Temple looked rather sheepish. He had never actually tried stealing six potatoes, or testing the virtue in hairs from a black cat’s tail, as a relief from gout, but he had not been above a course of tansy tea, and decoctions of jimson-weed, and other of Delilah’s remedies that scientifically were on a par with the black cat’s tail. But, being racked with pain, he took refuge in pessimism and profanity.
“Excuse me, Wortley, but all medicine is a damned humbug!—I mean—er—an empirical science. What is written is written. The Great First Cause, that decrees from the hour of our birth every act of our lives, has decreed that I should suffer great pain, anguish, and discomfort from this hereditary disease.”
“Marse, ef you wuz ter repent an’ be saved—”
“Hold your infernal tongue!”
“An’ jine de Foot-washers—”
“Damn the Foot-washers!” howled the general.
“Plague on it!” snarled Dr. Wortley, whirling round with his back to the fire. “If you’ve got as far as predestination, you’re in for a six weeks’ spell. I can cure the gout, but I’ll be shot if I can do anything when it’s complicated with religion and black cats’ tails and a constant diet like a Christmas dinner!”
In the midst of the discussion, the doctor’s shrill voice rising high over Delilah’s, who, with arms akimbo and a defiant air, only awaited Dr. Wortley’s departure to get in her innings with the patient, Mrs. Temple, serene and sweet, came in and quelled the insurrection. Delilah at once subsided, Dr. Wortley began to laugh, and the general directed that Mrs. Temple’s chair be put next to his.