side and pinched it hard, the other selected the third best apple.

"Yes," I groaned, "I _had_ pain there."

"Ah!" he shook his head. "And there?" He sat down heavily on my right
ankle. He is a ponderous man.

"Agony," I moaned.

"Ah! And something throbbing like a gong in the brain?" he inquired,
tapping me on the head with the metal mirror.

I nodded dumbly. He rose, shrugging his shoulders.

"All the symptoms, I'm afraid. That's just how it took poor old
Simpson. He had this very cot--let me see, back in '16, I suppose.
I had it very slightly afterwards--it was touch and go; I was the
only one they pulled through--but I only had it _very_ slightly, you
understand--not like that. But cheer up, old man. I've been told that
a fellow got through it in the next ward--of course he's an idiot now,
but he didn't _die_. I don't suppose you'll be wanting the rest of
these apples, will you? All right, don't mention it;" and he passed on
to the next cot.

When the proper doctor came round a few minutes later (Burnett says)
he found his own thermometer quite inadequate and had to borrow the
one that registers the heat of the ward. When he took it out of my
mouth it wasn't far short of boiling-point, and he wrote straight off
to _The Lancet_ about it; also they had to get one of those lightning
calculator chaps down to count my pulse.