"Don't rub that eye," Ashton counselled, "rub the other eye."
"It's my eye; I'll rub it if I want to. Get me a doctor, somebody. I'm dying."
"Here's Doctor Temple," said Ashton, "right on the job." Wellington turned to the old clergyman with pathetic trust, and the deceiver writhed in his disguise. The best he could think of was: "Will somebody lend me a lead pencil?"
"What for?" said Wellington, uneasily.
"I am going to roll your upper lid up on it," said the Doctor.
"Oh, no, you're not," said the patient. "You can roll your own lids!"
Then the conductor, still another conductor, wandered on the scene and asked as if it were not a world-important matter: "What's the matter—pick up a cinder?"
"Yes. Perhaps you can get it out," the alleged doctor appealed.
The conductor nodded: "The best way is this—take hold of the winkers."
"The what?" mumbled Wellington.