The outline of the following ludicrous "situation" was given me by a
gentleman of Framingham:--
Old Dr. K., of F., was represented as a rough and off-handed specimen of
the genus _homo_, who liked a horse even better than a woman,--not that he
was by any means unmindful of the charms and claims of the
beautiful,--better than he loved money, though the latter passion
bordered on avariciousness.
An over-nice and sensitive spinster once was visiting the family of Mr.
T., in town, which employed a younger and more refined physician than Dr.
K.; and the spinster, being somewhat indisposed, requested Mr. T. to call
a physician. His own family doctor was suggested; but on close inquiry,
she concluded to have "the oldest and most experienced physician that the
town afforded," and old Dr. K. was called.
Mr. T. had just purchased a beautiful mare, which the doctor was desirous
of possessing; and the animal was the subject of conversation as the two
entered the house, even to the parlor, where the spinster reclined upon a
sofa. The old doctor examined the lady for a moment in silence, but his
mind was all absorbed in the reputed qualities of the mare, as he timed
the lady's pulse.
"Slightly nervous," he said to the spinster. "Tongue? Ah! coated. Throat
sore?" and turning towards T., he resumed the horse discussion, still
holding the lady's wrist. "Good wind, Mr. T.? No spavins? Nothing the
matter? Suppose you trot her out this afternoon."
The spinster, supposing the conversation alluded to her, went into the
most extreme kind of hysterics.
"A SCARED CUSTOMER."
We give this incident for what it is worth.
A man recently entered a restaurant in Utica, N. Y., and ordered a very
elaborate dinner. He lingered long at the table, and finally wound up with
a bottle of wine. Then lighting a cigar, he sauntered up to the bar, and
remarked to the proprietor,--
"Very fine dinner, landlord. Just charge it, for I haven't a cent."
"But I don't know you," replied the proprietor, indignantly.
"No, of course you don't, or you never would have let me have the dinner."
"Pay me for the dinner, I say," shouted the landlord.
"And I say I can't," vociferated the customer.
"Then I'll see about it," exclaimed the proprietor, who snatched something
from a drawer, leaped over the counter, and grasping the man by the
collar, pointed something at his throat. "I'll see if you get away with
that dinner without paying for it, you scoundrel."
"What is that you hold in your hand?" demanded the now affrighted
customer, trying to get a sight at the article.
"That, sir, is a revolver; loaded, sir."
[Illustration: NOT A STOMACH-PUMP.]
"O, d---- that; I don't care a continental for a revolver; I've got one
myself. _I was afraid it was a stomach-pump!_"
"WHAT'S TRUMPS?"
Mrs. Bray, in her book of _Anecdotes_, relates a story illustrative of the
power of the ruling passion.
"A Devonshire physician, boasting the not untradesman-like name of Vial,
was a desperate lover of the game of whist. One evening, during his
opponent's deal, he fell to the floor in a fit. Consternation seized on
the company, who knew not if the doctor was dead or alive. Finally he
showed signs of returning life, and retaining the last cherished idea that
had possessed him on falling into the fit, he resumed his chair,
exclaiming, '_What's trumps, boys?_'"
* * * * *
The writer was present at a similar occurrence. There were a half score of
boys seated upon some logs near the country school-house, during recess,
listening to a story, something about "an old woman who had just reached a
well, with a pitcher to obtain some water, when the old lady tripped her
toe, and fell into the well head foremost."
At this juncture one of the listeners fell forward from the log in a fit.
We were greatly frightened, but mustered sufficient courage to throw some
water in the boy's face, when he gradually came to his senses,
exclaiming,--
"_Did she break the pitcher, Johnny?_"
* * * * *