Dr. P. It’s curious how prevalent these symptoms are at the present moment.  I think, if you don’t mind, I will begin by taking your temperature.

    [Produces clinical thermometer and gives it three good
    jerks.

Mr. S. (to himself:  There—­I knew he’d want to put one of those infernal machines in my mouth.  I simply loathe the feeling of them, and I’m always on the verge of crunching them up.  Perhaps I ought to warn him.) (Aloud) I’m afraid I’m not much good as a thermometer man.

Dr. P. Oh, it’s a mere trifle.  All you’ve got to do is just to hold it under your tongue.  There—­it’s in.

Mr. S. (talking with difficulty).  Ish i’ in ‘e ri’ plashe?

Dr. P. Yes.  But don’t try to talk while it’s in your mouth.  I’ve had patients who’ve bitten it in two.  There—­that’s enough. (Extracts it deftly from patient’s mouth and examines it.) Hum, hum, yes.  A point below normal.  Nothing violently wrong there. (He now performs the usual rites and mysteries.) I’ll make you out a little prescription which ought to put you all right.  And if you can spare a week, and spend it at Eastbourne, I don’t think it will do you any harm.

Mr. S. (To himself:  I like this man.  He doesn’t waste any time.  It’s a curious coincidence that I should have been thinking this very morning of arranging a visit to the seaside.  Now of course I’ve absolutely got to go.  Can’t disobey my new doctor, and wouldn’t if I could.  By Jove, I’d all but forgotten about the two guineas fee.  Yes, the cheque’s in my breast-pocket.  Two guineas for the first visit.  The rule is not to give it too openly, but to slip it on to a desk or table as if you were half ashamed of it.  Where shall I put it so as to make sure he spots it out of the corner of his eye?  Ha! on the blotting-pad, which I can just reach.  Does it with his left hand, and feels a man once more.)

Dr. P. And here’s your prescription.

Mr. S. Thank you a thousand times. (To himself:  He’s edging up to the blotting-pad, and he’ll have the cheque in another second.)

* * * * *

TO A CHINESE COOLIE.

  O happy Chink!  When I behold thy face,
    Illumined with the all-embracing smile
  Peculiar to thy celestial race,
    So full of mirth and yet so free from guile,
  I stand amazed and let my fancy roam,
    And ask myself by what mysterious lure
  Thou wert induced to leave thy flowery home
    For Flanders, where, alas! the flowers are fewer.

  Oft have I marked thee on the Calais quay,
    Unloading ships of plum-and-apple jam,
  Or beef, or, three times weekly, M. and V.,
    And sometimes bacon (very rarely ham);
  Or, where St. Quentin towers above the plain,
    Have seen thee scan the awful scene and sigh,
  Pick up a spade, then put it down again
    And wipe a furtive tear-drop from thine eye.