Before reaching him I passed through the hands of a maid and a
nurse, each of whom spoke to me in a low, sorrowful tone of voice,
which seemed to indicate that there was very little hope.

I reached an inner room where Doctor X was. He looked me over,
while I described for him as best I could what seemed to be the
matter with me, and asked me a number of intimate questions touching
on the lives, works, characters and peculiarities of my ancestors;
after which he made me stand up in front of him and take my coat
off, and he punched me hither and yon with his forefinger. He
also knocked repeatedly on my breastbone with his knuckles, and
each time, on doing this, would apply his ear to my chest and listen
intently for a spell, afterward shaking his head in a disappointed
way. Apparently there was nobody at home. For quite a time he
kept on knocking, but without getting any response.

He then took my temperature and fifteen dollars, and said it was
an interesting case--not unusual exactly, but interesting--and
that it called for an operation.

From the way my heart and other organs jumped inside of me at
that statement I knew at once that, no matter what he may have
thought, the premises were not unoccupied. Naturally I inquired
how soon he meant to operate. Personally I trusted there was no
hurry about it. I was perfectly willing to wait for several
years, if necessary. He smiled at my ignorance.

"I never operate," he said; "operating is entirely out of my line.
I am a diagnostician."