of the cheerful beverage known as jalap, and thresh the sheets with
my hot hands. I address large assemblages, who have somehow got
into my room, and I charge Dr. Williamson with the murder of Luce,
and Mr. Irwin, the actor, with the murder of Shakspeare. I have a
lucid spell now and then, in one of which James Townsend, the
landlord, enters. He whispers, but I hear what he says far too
distinctly: "This man can have anything and everything he wants;
but I'm no hand for a sick room. I NEVER COULD SEE ANYBODY DIE."

That was cheering, I thought. The noble Californian, Jerome
Davis -he of the celebrated ranch- sticks by me like a twin
brother, although I fear that in my hot frenzy I more than once
anathematised his kindly eyes. Nursers and watchers, Gentile and
Mormon, volunteer their services in hoops and rare wines are sent
to me from all over the city, which, if I can't drink, the
venerable and excellent Thomas can, easy.

I lay there in this wild, broiling way for nearly two weeks, when
one morning I woke up with my head clear and an immense plaster on
my stomach. The plaster had OPERATED. I was so raw that I could by
no means say to Dr. Williamson, "Well done, thou good and faithful
servant". I wished he had lathed me before he plastered me. I was
fearfully weak. I was frightfully thin. With either one of my
legs you could have cleaned the stem of a meerschaum pipe. My
backbone had the appearance of a clothesline with a quantity of
English walnuts strung upon it. My face was almost gone. My nose
was so sharp that I didn't dare stick it into other people's
business for fear it would stay there. But by borrowing my agent's
overcoat I succeeded in producing a shadow.