"'Ow's that?" asked Sam.
Mr. Parbury took a long pull at his pewter tankard, and then replaced it on the table. "Yer know wot a mad dog's like, don't yer?" he said impressively. "Well, yer can take it from me that a mad dog ain't in it with a microbe. Once a microbe gets a fair 'old on yer, ye're a goner an' no error."
"Why?" demanded Bill sceptically. "Wot do they do to yer?"
"Do to yer?" echoed Mr. Parbury. "Poisons yer! That's wot they do to yer. Each microbe's got some special disease of 'is own like, and 'e only 'as to get in one nip an' 'e can pass it on—see?"
"Why don't they muzzle 'em or stamp 'em out?" suggested Sam, who had a practical mind.
Mr. Parbury laughed scornfully. "Ah!" he said, "that would take a bit o' doin', that would. The only chaps wot understands the way to deal with microbes is doctors. They get so used to 'em they can 'andle 'em like terriers. Didn't I never tell yer that yarn o' Spikey Joe's, 'bout the doctor wot were in the Scrubs same time as 'e were?"
Sam shook his head, while Bill's naturally expressionless face betrayed no sign of recognition.
"Fancy my not 'avin' told yer that," said Mr. Parbury musingly. "Wonnerful interestin' story too. If I weren't so uncommon dry, I'd tell it yer now."
Sam waited a moment or two to see if Bill were going to speak, and then remarked with a faint touch of resentment in his voice:
"Give it a name, Mr. Parbury."