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Doyle, Arthur Conan, Sir, 1859-1930

"The Stark Munro Letters"

" "My dear," said he,
"take your medicine; and if that does no good, swallow
the cork, for there is nothing better when you are
sinking."
As far as I could judge, the bulk of the patients
looked upon a morning at Cullingworth's as a most
enthralling public entertainment, tempered only by a
thrill lest it should be their turn next to be made an
exhibition of.
Well, with half-an-hour for lunch, this extraordinary
business went on till a quarter to four in the afternoon.
When the last patient had departed, Cullingworth led the
way into the dispensary, where all the fees had been
arranged upon the counter in the order of their value.
There were seventeen half-sovereigns, seventy-three
shillings, and forty-six florins; or thirty-two pounds
eight and sixpence in all. Cullingworth counted it up,
and then mixing the gold and silver into one heap, he sat
running his fingers through it and playing with it.
Finally, he raked it into the canvas bag which I had seen
the night before, and lashed the neck up with a boot-
lace.
We walked home, and that walk struck me as the most
extraordinary part of all that extraordinary day.
Cullingworth paraded slowly through the principal streets
with his canvas bag, full of money, outstretched at the
full length of his arm. His wife and I walked on either
side, like two acolytes supporting a priest, and so
we made our way solemnly homewards the people stopping to
see us pass.


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