SUMMER before last, the time when cholera had poisoned the air, a
gentleman of wealth, standing and intelligence, from one of the
Southern or Middle States, while temporarily sojourning in Boston,
felt certain "premonitory symptoms," that were rather alarming, all
things considered. So he inquired of the hotel-keeper where he could
find a good physician.
"One of your best," said he, with an emphasis in his tones that
showed how important was the matter in his eyes.
"Doctor--stands at the head of his profession in our city,"
returned the hotel-keeper. "You may safely trust yourself in his
hands."
"Thank you. I will call upon him immediately," said the gentleman,
and away he went.
The doctor, fortunately, as the gentleman mentally acknowledged, was
in his office. The latter, after introducing himself, stated his
case with some concern of manner; when the doctor felt his pulse,
looked at his tongue, and made sundry professional inquiries.
"Your system is slightly disturbed," remarked the doctor, after
fully ascertaining the condition of his patient, "but I'll give you
a prescription that will bring all right again in less than
twenty-four hours."
And so he took out his pencil and wrote a brief prescription.
"How much am I indebted, doctor?" inquired the gentleman, as he
slipped the little piece of paper into his vest pocket.
"Five dollars for the consultation and prescription," replied the
doctor, bowing.
"Cheap enough, if I am saved from an attack of cholera," said the
patient as he drew forth his pocket-book and abstracted from its
folds the required fee. He then returned to the hotel, and, going to
one of the clerks, or bar-keeper, in the office, said to him--
"I wish you would send out and get me this prescription."
"Prescription! Why, Mr.--, are you sick?" returned the bar-keeper.
"I'm not very well," was answered.
"What's the matter?"
"Symptoms of the prevailing epidemic."
"Oh! Ah! And you've been to see a doctor?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"Doctor--"