“What’s that?” said Flick, startled.
“Madame Probasco’s spirits,” said Tootles, who always took an extreme view.
“Why, it’s Schneibel!” said King O’Leary, listening to the knocking, which was repeated with more insistence.
They rushed around and found the dentist doubled up on the sofa betwixt rage and pain, gasping,
“Dot lobster—oh, dot lobster salad!”
“That’s true,” said Flick, in a whisper. “He ate half the salad; I saw him.”
While Tootles ran off in search of Dean, O’Leary and Flick gazed, fascinated, at the unfortunate man, who, between his fury and his agony, had turned an orange red.
Young Mr. Dean arrived, and immediately began to explore for symptoms of appendicitis, showing that whatever his present incapacity, he had at least mastered the economic theory of medicine.
“No, no; it ain’t de appendix, it’s de lobster—de damned lobster an’ de pistache ice-cream—”
“Has he eaten that combination?” said the pale young man, who, from the last twenty-four hours’ experience, had begun to form a professional manner.