The outcome of the specialists’ conversation with Messrs Evans and Deadwood, after a rigorous examination of Jim’s injuries, was that Mr Deadwood called on the bearded man when the latter was discussing tea and crumpets on the following afternoon. "Oh, how do you do?" said the bearded man rather stiffly, as he rose from the table. He had observed the arrival of the partners in Mount Street with some misgivings, for he recognised them as members of the Matt’s band that laid waste his surgery. He did not go out of his way to renew his acquaintance with them, and trusted they would not take the initiative in that respect. However, in view of the ferocious character his patients had given Mr Deadwood, he thought it would be as well to be polite to him. "Don’t let me disturb you," said Mr Deadwood; "I have only dropped in to tell you, in the plainest way the mind of man is capable of conceiving, that you are an ass!" "What reason have you for saying this?" demanded the bearded man, coldly. "In the sublimity of your ignorance," explained Mr Deadwood, "added to your coruscatingly conceited idea that you know anything whatever about the human frame, you informed a sporting gentleman of my acquaintance that Jim Mortimer would only last twenty-four hours." "Yes," said the bearded man, "I said that, and I meant it. Is he still alive?" "Man, man!" exclaimed Mr Deadwood, "it hurts me to think that you come from Matt’s--a place that has bred many eminent surgeons, including myself and my friend of the carmine tresses." "Is Mortimer still alive, then?" reiterated the bearded man. "He is so alive," returned Mr Deadwood, "that Trefusis says he will be playing cricket in June! Wherefore, what price _your_ diagnosis of his hurts, my whiskered fakir?" "I am surprised to hear it," said he of the beard. "Of course you are," exclaimed Mr Deadwood, "and why? Because you are an ass. Sir, you ought to take a job on an Australian liner. You would find little to do except consume meals and inhale ozone. Going out, possibly there would be a few sick infants, and a gentleman afflicted with what is politely called the ’drink habit’! You would help the latter on his way to a watery grave, and no one would mind. Coming home, you might pick up a soldier from Egypt with dog-bite, bound for the Pasteur Institute. You would cut off his leg and think you had cured him. So why not get a liner job, my hairy false prophet?" "Please moderate your language!" exclaimed the bearded man, shortly. "Tut! tut! Go to!" replied Mr Deadwood; "I am only giving you these hints for your good. You ought not to doctor human beings, bar pirates or Esquimaux. Why not turn vet. and specialise in elephants? They take a lot of killing." "I think you are very rude," protested the bearded man. "Pulling out horses’ teeth isn’t a bad-paying business, either," continued Mr Deadwood. "You use forceps about as large as tongs. They would just suit your delicate touch."