Old Whitehall came in to see me the other day. The
object of his visit was to invite me to dinner, and the
object of the dinner to inaugurate my starting in
practice. If I were the kind old fellow's son he could
not take a deeper interest in me and my prospects.
"By ----, Dr. Munro, sir," said he, "I've asked every
---- man in Birchespool that's got anything the matter
with him. You'll have the lot as patients within a week.
There's Fraser, who's got a touch of Martell's three
star. He's coming. And there's Saunders, who talks
about nothing but his spleen. I'm sick of his ----
spleen! But I asked him. And there's Turpey's wound!
This wet weather sets it tingling, and his own surgeon
can do nothing but dab it with vaseline. He'll be there.
And there's Carr, who is drinking himself to death. He
has not much for the doctors, but what there is you may
as well have."
All next day he kept popping in to ask me questions
about the dinner. Should we have clear soup or ox-tail?
Didn't I think that burgundy was better than port
and sherry? The day after was the celebration itself,
and he was in with a bulletin immediately after
breakfast. The cooking was to be done at a neighbouring
confectioner's. The landlady's son was coming in to
wait. I was sorry to see that Whitehall was already
slurring his words together, and had evidently been
priming himself heavily. He looked in again in the
afternoon to tell me what a good time we should have.
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