"What reason have you for saying this?" demanded the bearded man, coldly.
"In the sublimity of your ignorance," explained Mr Deadwood, "added to your coruscatingly conceited idea that you know anything whatever about the human frame, you informed a sporting gentleman of my acquaintance that Jim Mortimer would only last twenty-four hours."
"Yes," said the bearded man, "I said that, and I meant it. Is he still alive?"
"Man, man!" exclaimed Mr Deadwood, "it hurts me to think that you come from Matt's--a place that has bred many eminent surgeons, including myself and my friend of the carmine tresses."
"Is Mortimer still alive, then?" reiterated the bearded man.
"He is so alive," returned Mr Deadwood, "that Trefusis says he will be playing cricket in June! Wherefore, what price your diagnosis of his hurts, my whiskered fakir?"
"I am surprised to hear it," said he of the beard.
"Of course you are," exclaimed Mr Deadwood, "and why? Because you are an ass. Sir, you ought to take a job on an Australian liner. You would find little to do except consume meals and inhale ozone. Going out, possibly there would be a few sick infants, and a gentleman afflicted with what is politely called the 'drink habit'! You would help the latter on his way to a watery grave, and no one would mind. Coming home, you might pick up a soldier from Egypt with dog-bite, bound for the Pasteur Institute. You would cut off his leg and think you had cured him. So why not get a liner job, my hairy false prophet?"
"Please moderate your language!" exclaimed the bearded man, shortly.
"Tut! tut! Go to!" replied Mr Deadwood; "I am only giving you these hints for your good. You ought not to doctor human beings, bar pirates or Esquimaux. Why not turn vet. and specialise in elephants? They take a lot of killing."