You see it
is a certainty for one thing, and it leads indirectly to
other little extras. Besides, it amounts up
surprisingly. I have no doubt that Horton has five or
six hundred a year from his clubs alone. On the other
hand, you can imagine that club patients, since they pay
the same in any case, don't let their ailments go very
far before they are round in the consulting room.
Well, then, by half-past nine we are in full blast.
Horton is seeing the better patients in the consulting
room, I am interviewing the poorer ones in the waiting
room, and McCarthy, the Irishman, making up prescriptions
as hard as he can tear. By the club rules, patients are
bound to find their own bottles and corks.
They generally remember the bottle, but always
forget the cork. "Ye must pay a pinny or ilse put your
forefinger in," says McCarthy. They have an idea that
all the strength of the medicine goes if the bottle is
open, so they trot off with their fingers stuck in the
necks. They have the most singular notions about
medicines. "It's that strong that a spoon will stand oop
in't!" is one man's description. Above all, they love to
have two bottles, one with a solution of citric acid, and
the other with carbonate of soda. When the mixture
begins to fizz, they realise that there is indeed a
science of medicine.
This sort of work, with vaccinations, bandagings, and
minor surgery, takes us to nearly eleven o'clock, when we
assemble in Horton's room to make out the list.
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