'Hum,' he says, holdin' ye'er wrist an' bowin'
through th' window to a frind iv his on a sthreet car. 'Does that
hurt?' he says, stabbin' ye with his thumbs in th' suburbs iv th' pain.
'Ye know it does,' says ye with a groan. 'Don't do that again. Ye
scratched me.' He hurls ye'er wrist back at ye an' stands at th' window
lookin' out at th' firemen acrost th' sthreet playin' dominoes. He says
nawthin' to ye an' ye feel like th' prisoner while th' foreman iv th'
jury is fumblin' in his inside pocket f'r th' verdict. Ye can stand it
no longer. 'Dock,' says he, 'is it annything fatal? I'm not fit to die
but tell me th' worst an' I will thry to bear it. 'Well,' says he, 'ye
have a slight interioritis iv th' semi-colon. But this purscription
ought to fix ye up all right. Ye'd betther take it over to th' dhrug
sthore an' have it filled ye'ersilf. In th' manetime I'd advise ye to be
careful iv ye'er dite. I wudden't ate annything with glass or a large
percintage iv plasther iv Paris in it.' An' he goes away to write his
bill.
"I wondher why ye can always read a doctor's bill an' ye niver can read
his purscription. F'r all ye know, it may be a short note to th'
dhruggist askin' him to hit ye on th' head with a pestle. An' it's a
good thing ye can't read it.
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