Several heavy fists beat such a tattoo on his spine that the Deacon felt as if at least one of his vertebrae would come up.
"He's black in the face," said Widow Leech,—"he's swallered somethin' the wrong way. Where's the Doctor?—let the Doctor get to him, can't ye?"
"If you will move, my good lady, perhaps I can," said Dr. Kittredge, in a calm tone of voice.—"He's not choking, my friends," the Doctor added immediately, when he got sight of him.
"It's apoplexy,—I told you so,—don't you see how red he is in the face?" said old Mrs. Peake, a famous woman for "nussin" sick folks,—determined to be a little ahead of the Doctor.
"It's not apoplexy," said Dr. Kittredge.
"What is it, Doctor? what is it? Will he die? Is he dead?—Here's his poor wife, the Widow Soper that is to be, if she a'n't a'ready."
"Do be quiet, my good woman," said Dr. Kittredge.—"Nothing serious, I think, Mrs. Soper.—Deacon!"
The sudden attack of Deacon Soper had begun with the extraordinary sound mentioned above. His features had immediately assumed an expression of intense pain, his eyes staring wildly, and, clapping his hands to his face, he had rocked his head backward and forward in speechless agony.
At the Doctor's sharp appeal the Deacon lifted his head.
"It's all right," said the Doctor, as soon as he saw his face. "The Deacon had a smart attack of neuralgic pain. That's all. Very severe, but not at all dangerous."