McGregor felt his pulse, made his usual careful
examination, and said at last, "Now keep quiet, and in a few days you'll
be well."
"For God's sake, give me whisky--a little. I'm so weak I can't stand up."
"No," said McGregor, "it will pass. Now I must go. A word with you, Mr.
Rivers." When outside of the room he said, "We must trust Billy, I
suppose?"
"Yes, there is no one else."
"That man is giving his whole mind to thinking how he can get whisky. He
will lie, cheat, steal, do anything to get it."
"How can he? Neither Billy nor his old mother will help him. He will get
well, Doctor, I suppose?"
"Yes, I told him he would. More's the pity. He is a permanent nuisance,
up to any wickedness, a hopelessly ruined wild beast."
"Perhaps," said Rivers; "perhaps. Who can be sure of that?" He despaired
of no one.
The sadly experienced doctor shook his head. "He will live to do much
mischief. The good die young; you may be sure the wicked do not. In some
ways the man's case has its droll side. Queer case! in some ways
interesting."
"How is it interesting?" said Rivers.
"Oh, what he saw--his delusions when he was at his worst."
"What did he see?"
"Oh, bugs--snakes--the common symptoms, and at last the 'Wilmot Proviso.'
Imagine it. He knew no more of that than of the physiology of the man in
the moon.
Pages:
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159