"I see how it is," says the surgeon, thoughtfully; "you think you've got the guitar, when it's only the drum of your ear that is affected. Well," says the surgeon, with sudden pleasantness, as he reached after his saw and one of the pick-axes, "I must amputate your left leg at once."
The Mud-lark curled himself up in bed like a wounded anaconda, and says he:
"I don't see it in that light."
"Well," says the surgeon, in a sprightly manner, "then suppose I put a fly-blister on your stomick, and only amputate your right arm?"
The surgeon was formerly a blacksmith, my boy, and got his diploma by inventing some pills with iron in them. He proved that the blood of six healthy men contained enough iron to make six horse-shoes, and then invented the pills to cure hoarseness.
The sick chap reflected on what his medical adviser had said, and then says he:
"Your words convince me that my situation must be dangerous. I must see some relative before I permit myself to be dissected."
"Whom would you wish me to send for?" says the surgeon.
"My grandmother, my dear old grandmother," said the Mud-lark, with much feeling.
The surgeon took me cautiously aside, and says he: