“Ye begin to think there’s a conspiracy against ye to get ye’er money befure he saunters into th’ room an’ says in a gay tone:  ’Well, what d’ye mane be tyin’ up wan iv th’ gr-reat industhrees iv our nation be stayin’ away fr’m wurruk f’r a day?’ ‘Dock,’ says ye in a feeble voice, ‘I have a tur’ble pain in me abdumdum.  It reaches fr’m here to here,’ makin’ a rough sketch iv th’ burned disthrict undher th’ blanket.  ’I felt it comin’ on last night but I didn’t say annything f’r fear iv alarmin’ me wife, so I simply groaned,’ says ye.

“While ye ar-re describin’ ye’er pangs, he walks around th’ room lookin’ at th’ pictures.  Afther ye’ve got through he comes over an says:  ’Lave me look at ye’er tongue.  ‘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.  If ye cud, ye’d say:  ’I’ll not cash this in at no dhrug store.  I’ll go over to Dooley’s an’ get th’ rale thing.’  So, afther thryin’ to decipher this here corner iv a dhress patthern, ye climb into ye’er clothes f’r what may be ye’er last walk up Ar-rchy Road.  As ye go along ye begin to think that maybe th’ Dock knows ye have th’ Asiatic cholery an’ was onl’y thryin’ to jolly ye with his manner iv dealin’ with ye.  As ye get near th’ dhrug store ye feel sure iv it, an’ ‘tis with th’ air iv a man without hope that ye hand th’ paper to a young pharmycist who is mixin’ a two-cent stamp f’r a lady customer.  He hands it over to a scientist who is compoundin’ an ice-cream soda f’r a child, with th’ remark:  ‘O’Leary’s writin’ is gettin’ worse an’ worse.  I can’t make this out at all.’  ‘Oh,’ says th’ chemist, layin’ down his spoon, ‘that’s his old cure f’r th’ bellyache.  Ye’ll find a bucket iv it in th’ back room next to th’ coal scuttle.’