paper where my nail
scored it. We knew he would, and he is now lying on the sofa rather
pale. He even groans a little. The symptoms work handsomely. It is small
wonder we are alarmed.

We ring for the landlady, and she comes in hastily and with anxiety
depicted on her countenance. She asks him where he feels it worst. Teena
runs for Quain, and, being the least suspect of the party, she reads, in
a low, hushed tone, an account of the symptoms of enteric fever
(previously inserted in manuscript) which would considerably astonish
Dr. Quain and the able specialist who contributed the real account of
that disease to the volume.

It seems that for the disease specified, castor-oil and a mustard
blister, the latter applied very warm between the shoulders, are the
appropriate and certain cures. There is nothing that Mac dislikes so
much as castor-oil. He would rather die than take it--so he says. But a
valuable life, which might be spent in the service of the highest art,
must not be permitted to be thus thrown away. So we get the castor-oil
in a spoon, and with Teena coaxing and Almond acting on the well-known
principle of twenty years' resolute government--down she goes.

Instantly Mac feels a little better, for he can groan easier than
before. That is a good sign. The great thing now is to keep up the
temperature and induce perspiration. The mustard approaches. The
landlady cries from the kitchen to know if he is ready. Teena retires to
get more blankets. The patient is put to bed, and in a little the
mustard plaster is being applied in the place indicated by Quain. We
tell one another what a mercy it is that we have all the requisites in
the house. (There is no mustard in the plaster, really--only a few
pepper-corns and a little sand scraped from the geological hammer.) But
we say aloud that we hope Mac can bear it for twenty minutes, and we
speculate on whether it will bring _all_ the skin with it when it comes
off.

This is too much, and the groaning recommences. The blankets are
applied, and in a trice there is no lack of perspiration. But within
three minutes Mac shouts that the abominable plaster is burning right
down through him. It is all pure mustard, he says. We must have put a
live coal in by mistake. We tell him it will be all right--in twenty
minutes. It is no use; he is far past advice, and in his insanity he
would tear it off and so endanger the success of the treatment. But this
cannot be permitted. So A