With a loud "hush" he
would rush at them, thump them on the chests, listen to
their hearts, write their labels, and then run them out
of the room by their shoulders. One poor old lady he
greeted with a perfect scream. "You've been drinking too
much tea!" he cried. "You are suffering from tea
poisoning!" Then, without allowing her to get a word in,
he clutched her by her crackling black mantle,
dragged her up to the table, and held out a copy of
"Taylor's Medical Jurisprudence" which was lying there.
"Put your hand on the book," he thundered, "and swear
that for fourteen days you will drink nothing but cocoa."
She swore with upturned eyes, and was instantly whirled
off with her label in her hand, to the dispensary. I
could imagine that to the last day of her life, the old
lady would talk of her interview with Cullingworth; and
I could well understand how the village from which she
came would send fresh recruits to block up his waiting
rooms.
Another portly person was seized by the two armholes
of his waistcoat, just as he was opening his mouth to
explain his symptoms, and was rushed backward down the
passage, down the stairs, and finally into the street, to
the immense delight of the assembled patients, "You eat
too much, drink too much, and sleep too much,"
Cullingworth roared after him. "Knock down a policeman,
and come again when they let you out." Another patient
complained of a "sinking feeling.
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