And it was; it was ink. So I treated his proposed compromise with
silent contempt, merely remarking, as I uncorked the bottle:
"Medicine's medicine, my fine friend; and it is for the sick." Then,
spinioning his arms with one of mine, I concerted the neck of the
bottle between his teeth.
"Now, you lacustrine old cylinder-escapement," I exclaimed, with some
warmth, "hand up your stomach for this healing precoction, or I'm
blest if I won't controvert your _raison d'etre!_"
He struggled hard, but, owing to my habit of finishing what I
undertake, without any success. In ten minutes it was all down--except
that some of it was spouted about rather circumstantially over the
bedding, and walls, and me. There was more of the draught than I had
thought. As he had been two days ill, I had supposed the bottle must
be nearly empty; but, of course, when you think of it, a man doesn't
abrogate much ink in an ordinary attack--except editors.
Just as I got my knees off the spatient's breast, Maud peeped in at
the door. She had remained in the lane till she thought the charm had
had time to hibernate, then came in to have her laugh. She began
having it, gently; but seeing me with the empty bottle in my sable
hand, and the murky inspiration rolling off my face in gasconades, she
got graver, and came in very soberly.
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