“And to drink?”
“Yes.”
“Good clothes?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have nothing to trouble you?”
“No—nothing but the bubly Jock,” (a cock-turkey.)
“Ah, what of the bubly Jock?”
“Oh, he is always running after me; night or day, asleep or awake, I can always see him—gobble, gobble!”
“There!” said Sir Walter to the gentlemen; “the decision is in my favor. This poor simpleton, though he is provided with every comfort, is still beset by a tormentor. It matters not that it is invisible—that it exists only in his fancy—it is to him a real bubly Jock, and as truly disturbs his peace as if it were a thing of flesh, and strutted forth in feathers.”
And now I must tell of my troubles. Perhaps you will laugh—but one thing that frequently makes me very fidgety, is an itching in the great toe of my wooden leg! If you think this nonsense, just ask any old soldier who has lost a limb, and he will tell you, if it is a foot or a hand, that he has all the sensations of heat or cold in the fingers or toes of the absent member, just as distinctly as if it was in its place and as sound as ever. This is no joke—it is a reality that you can easily verify.