man with laughing: and this in the most literal sense. American
lecturers have often dreamed of doing this. I nearly did it. The man
in question was a comfortable apoplectic-looking man with the kind of
merry rubicund face that is seen in countries where they don't have
prohibition. He was seated near the back of the hall and was laughing
uproariously. All of a sudden I realised that something was
happening. The man had collapsed sideways on to the floor; a little
group of men gathered about him; they lifted him up and I could see
them carrying him out, a silent and inert mass. As in duty bound I
went right on with my lecture. But my heart beat high with
satisfaction. I was sure that I had killed him. The reader may judge
how high these hopes rose when a moment or two later a note was
handed to the chairman who then asked me to pause for a moment in my
lecture and stood up and asked, "Is there a doctor in the audience?"
A doctor rose and silently went out. The lecture continued; but there
was no more laughter; my aim had now become to kill another of them
and they knew it. They were aware that if they started laughing they
might die. In a few minutes a second note was handed to the chairman.
He announced very gravely, "A second doctor is wanted." The lecture
went on in deeper silence than ever. All the audience were waiting
for a third announcement. It came. A new message was handed to the
chairman. He rose and said, "If Mr. Murchison, the undertaker, is in
the audience, will he kindly step outside."

That man, I regret to say, got well.

Disappointing though it is to read it, he recovered. I sent back
next morning from London a telegram of enquiry (I did it in reality
so as to have a proper proof of his death) and received the answer,
"Patient doing well; is sitting up in bed and reading Lord Haldane's