Mr. Graves and Mr. Slaymore being two out of half-a-dozen medical men residing in the same street, their young auxiliaries are in the habit of coming frequently in contact, and dialogues of a characteristic nature often take place, on these occasions, between them. We hope the following colloquy may seem less in need of abbreviation to the reader than it might be to a patient dependent on its termination for his dose of calomel.
"Hallo! old feller, where are you off to in sitch a hurry?" The querist was Master Scales, who in sauntering along the neighbouring square was passed by Master Potts, walking at a rapid pace, with his salutiferous burden upon his arm.
"Hallo!" replied Master Potts; and turning round he beheld his young acquaintance, Tom. "Well, young stick-in-the-mud!"
"I say, who's got the cholera, to make you stir your stumps like that 'ere?"
"Who do you think?—Mrs. Walker."
"Gammon! What's up tell us."
"Why it's the old gal at 42; she 's precious bad, I can tell yer."
"What's got her then? I see her the day 'fore yesterday, lookin' all right enough."
"Paralatic—least that's what maws'r says 'tis. He 'll be precious wild if she dies. My eye what a lot o' bottles I've a-took there! I warrand you ain't got sitch a good un!"
"Ain't we though; there's a old chap we've got from the East Ingies, as I'd back agin her any day."