From the portals of this establishment, about two o'clock in the afternoon, issued a weary little old man of Jewish appearance, who, after glancing up and down Mount Street, crossed over to the surgery.
He found Jim doing up some medicine.
"How d'ye do, doctor?" said he.
"How are you, sir?"
"Queer, doctor. Thought I'd come and ask your advice."
"Go ahead," said Jim, jabbing a stick of sealing-wax into the gas-jet.
"I've a funny feeling all over my 'ead--not in the 'ead, but all over it. I've been a good deal worried of late, doctor."
"Sort of feeling as if your hair was being brushed?" inquired Jim.
"That's it. Not so nice, though."
"I know it," said Jim; "I've had it myself when I've been stewing hard for an exam." (He hadn't really, but "having had it himself" was a medical formula that he deemed it well to abide by--it comforted patients.)