“My tongue!” exclaimed the baronet, “ah! you might be greatly disappointed by that organ; there’s no depending on tongues now-a-days, doctor!”
“Yet the tongue is very symptomatic, I can assure you, Sir John,” pursued the doctor gravely.
“Possibly, in your part of the world,” replied the baronet. “But I do assure you, we place very little reliance on tongues in my country.”
“You know best,” said the doctor coolly: “then, pray let me feel your pulse, Sir John,” looking steadfastly on his stop-watch, counting the seconds and the throbs of the Milesian artery. “Heyday! why, your pulse is not only irregular, but intermits!”
“I wish my remittances did not,” remarked Sir John, mournfully, and thinking he had got an excellent opportunity of apologising to the doctor.
The latter, however, had no idea of any roundabout apologies (never having been in Ireland), and resumed: “your remittances! ah, ah, Sir John! But seriously, your pulse is all astray; pray, do you feel a pain any where?”
“Why, doctor,” said Sir John, (sticking in like manner to his point,) “whenever I put my hand into my breeches-pocket, I feel a confounded twitch, which gives me very considerable uneasiness, I assure you.”
“Hah!” said the doctor, conceiving he had now discovered some new symptom about the femoral artery—“are you sure there’s nothing in your pocket that hurts you, Sir John?—Perhaps some—”
“O no, doctor,” said the baronet rather impatiently; “there’s nothing at all in my pocket, Doctor T——.”
“Then the twitch may be rather serious,” and the doctor looked knowing, although he was still at fault concerning the éclaircissement. “It is a singular symptom. Do you feel your head at all heavy, Sir John—a sensation of weight?”