"No," said Dr. Fiddler shortly, "I have not that felicity, Mr.
Bingle." And Mr. Bingle thought he understood why Dr. Fiddler felt
that Uncle Joe had been badly treated.

Later on, Uncle Joe blandly asseverated that it pays to have the best,
no matter what it costs. "Why, one of these cheap, rattle-brained
doctors would have let me die, sure as fate. Old Fiddler comes high,
but he cures. If I should happen to get sick again, Tom, send for him
without delay, will you?"

Mr. Bingle said he would, and he meant it. He had jotted down in the
back of a little notebook each successive visit of Dr. Fiddler, and,
consulting it from time to time, had no difficulty in realising that
he came high. Twenty-one visits, at ten dollars a visit, that's what
it amounted to, say nothing of the drug bill, the extra-food bill, the
night-nurse's wages, and the wear and tear on the nerves of his wife,
himself--and Melissa. For, it would appear, Melissa had nerves as well
as the rest of them, and Uncle Joe was the very worst thing in the
world for Melissa's nerves. She very frequently said so, and sometimes
to his face, although she never neglected him for an instant. In
truth, she shared with Mrs. Bingle the day nursing, and seldom slept
well of nights, knowing that the night-nurse was upsetting everything
in the kitchen and pantry in her most professional way.

Of course Uncle Joe did not actually get well. He merely recovered. In
other words, he survived the attack of influenza and heart trouble,
only to go on ailing as he had ailed before. He was quite cheerful
about it, too. They used to catch him chuckling to himself as he sat
shivering over the fireplace, and he seemed to take especial delight