He came into the semi-silence room of the club the other day and sat down beside me.
“Have something or other?” he said.
“No, thanks,” I answered.
“Smoke anything?” he asked.
“No, thanks.”
The doctor turned to me. He evidently wanted to talk.
“I’ve been having a rather peculiar experience,” he said. “Man came to me the other day—three or four weeks ago—and said, ‘Doctor, I feel out of sorts. I believe I’ve got so and so.’ ‘Ah,’ I said, taking a look at him, ‘been eating so and so, eh?’ ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Very good,’ I said, ‘take so and so.’
“Well, off the fellow went—I thought nothing of it—simply wrote such and such in my note-book, such and such a date, symptoms such and such—prescribed such and such, and so forth, you understand?”
“Oh, yes, perfectly, doctor,” I answered.
“Very good. Three days later—a ring at the bell in the evening—my servant came to the surgery. ‘Mr. So and So is here. Very anxious to see you.’ ‘All right!’ I went down. There he was, with every symptom of so and so written all over him—every symptom of it—this and this and this—”