Dr. Harvey Wiley tells the following story: Sleepily, after a night off,
a certain interne hastened to his hospital ward. The first patient was a
stout old Irishman.
"How goes it?" he inquired.
"Faith, it'sh me breathin', doctor. I can't get me breath at all, at
all."
"Why, your pulse is normal. Let me examine the lung-action," replied the
doctor, kneeling beside the cot and laying his head on the ample chest.
"Now, let's hear you talk," he continued, closing his eyes and
listening.
"What'll Oi be sayin', doctor?"
"Oh, say anything. Count one, two, three, and up," murmured the interne,
drowsily.
"Wan, two, three, four, five, six," began the patient. When the young
doctor, with a start, opened his eyes, he was counting huskily: "Tin
hundred an' sixty-nine, tin hundred an' sivinty, tin hundred an'
sivinty-wan."