DOCTOR: That’s your fault. I told him you were going to make a fuss, and I suppose he’s busy and has put it off until to-morrow. VISITOR: Can’t you make ’im come to-night, Doctor? The boy is very bad. And one of the other boys is sneezin’, and the other one ’e says there is a funny feelin’ in ’is thumb. Can’t you come at once, Doctor? DOCTOR: Wait one minute, then, till I’ve written these prescriptions. VISITOR: Go’ bless you, Doctor. We ain’t ser much as looked at Dr. Popham’s physic. We ain’t, straight. The boy is very bad. ’Is face ’as gone a very funny colour. ’Ot this evenin’, ain’t it? Much obliged to you, I’m sure, Doctor. Think you kin put it right? The boy _is_ bad. It’s a ’ot evenin’. What they playin’ at in the ’ealth orfice, Doctor—leavin’ a man’s child to die? *XIX* *CURING THE CURER* "Yes, Aunt Isobel," said James—"I quite agree with you. The silly old duffer ought certainly to take an anti-something. He’s as down-hearted and high-tempered as possible." "Certainly," quoth Aunt Isobel—a thin and very definite lady, with a wire-woven manner—"_something_ ought to be done. Your father is looking very unwell. I attribute his condition to overwork and undernourishment." "Nourishment’s all right, Aunt Isobel," protested James. "He eats enough to fill an ox." Aunt Isobel winced and raised an arresting forearm, as if to ward off some physical menace. "You really do employ the most trying phrases, my dear," she said. "Personally, I am a stronger believer in Anti-Nervo. Two tablets, three times a day—one before each meal, and one after. It is really a quite remarkable remedy. Poverty of blood is one of a great number of complaints for which the makers themselves especially recommend it. Poverty of blood is, of course, your father’s chief trouble. He is much under-nourished." "You ought to see him walk into a steak," said James. "If," pursued Aunt Isobel, "he really does receive a proper quantity of food, then I’m inclined to fear that it is food of poor quality. If, indeed, both the quality _and_ quantity of his food should prove to be adequate, I can only suppose that he is suffering from insufficient sleep. Or is it brain fag? It _might_, of course, be liver or weak heart. Or some secret trouble, perhaps. Anti-Nervo is strongly recommended for all these complaints. He must certainly be made to take some Anti-Nervo." "He must certainly be made to do something violent," admitted James. "He’s certainly got hold of a most phenomenal hump." Aunt Isobel was again forced to push off imaginary assailants. "Where _did_ you learn, my dear," she inquired, in a poignant sort of tone, "to use such fearfully emancipated expressions? Another remedy in which I have the greatest possible faith is Sal-Toxine. Do you know Sal-Toxine? But, of course, you don’t; it is quite a novel remedy. I myself have only—why, here is your dear father."