A Sovereign Remedy.

Evening Post, Volume XLVIII, Issue 24, 28 July 1894, Page 1 (Supplement)

A Sovereign Remedy.

*■ Mr. Quaggles declared he felt extremoly ill. He didu't know what was the matter with him, but he graphically said, that he was at death's door, and he could hear the haudle being turned the other side to give him admittance. Mr. Quaggles wouldu't see a doctor. He had a peculiar aversion to doctors, especially to their bills. Some people wero unkind enough to say that Mr. Quaggles " put on " his illness. One day Mrs. Quaggles found a little pamphlot, which had been thrust under the front door, that had been issued by a firm of patent medicine vendors, wherein the symptoms of various ailmeuts were minutely described. After perusing it, she took it to her husband, and said : — "Thomas, you can find out what is the matter with you by reading this little book." •' Reading that !" exclaimed Mr. Quaggles, contemptuously. "Why, my symptoms wouldn't go in a few pages like that It would "take three volumes to describe 'em. However," he added, "you can read some symptoms to me, Jemima. I don't feel equal to doing it myself." And he leaned back in his arm-chair, sighing heavily. "My gracious, I do feel bad," he moaned. So Mrs. Quaggles begau : — "'Pain in back and under shoulder blades', frequent headaches, principally over eyei.* 1 " "That's me," groaned Mr. Quaggles. "Yes, that's you, Thomas," assented Mrs. Quaggles^ and went on:—" 'Depressed aud languid feeling, burning of the palms of tho Hands and soles of the feet.' " "Me again I . ' You could cook a steak on mine," declared Mr. Quaggles. ' ' ' Aversion to physical exercise. ' That's you, Thomas," deolared his wife. "You are frightfully lazy." "No, no, Jemima, that's not me," dissented the invalid. "I'm not a bit lazy, only my poor, feeble body won't let mo take any exercise. Go on, Jemima, your voice puts mo in miud of the Dead March in 'Saul.'" " ' Unpleasant dreams,' " continued Mrs. Quaggles. " Rather ! Why, I have such awful dreams that I believe they lift some of my hair off my head every night ; that's why I'm getting so bald," he said, mournfully. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" And Mr. Quaggles suddenly darted out of his chair, and grasped the top of his head. •' Whatever's the matter, Thomas P" asked his wife, alarmedlv. "Why, I had a pain shoot right up from my big toe to the top of my head." " Good gracious, what a long pain !" exclaimed Mrs. Quaggles. "You're ovja six feet, you know, Thomas." " Yes, and it ain't finished yet. It keeps coiling round and round my head," groaned Mr. Quaggles. "Doesn't it give that symptom, Jemima P,' "No, I can't find anything about the sea - serpent," giggled Mrs. Quaggles. "That's what you must have inside you." " Jemima," said her husband, reproachfully, "is this a time for heartless levity, when here I am with one foot iv the grave and the other slipping down the side of it P What do all these terrible symptoms point to? Is my heart going to drop to pieces, are my lungs going to burst, or what ?" "Liver, Thomas. It's your liver that's wrong, S3 far as I can make out." "Ah, I thought so. That's why I can't eat ; there's no room for food in me ; the space is all occupied by my liver ; it has, so to say, taken the whole house, instead of living iv ono apartment as it ought to do. I tell you, Jemima, I've got enough livor to go with a side of bacon, and then there would be some loft to eat cold alone I'm doomed, dear. I'll make my will at once, though it is but littlo I havo to leave. You had better go round to the undertaker and get an estimate for a funeral — a plain one, you know — and " There was a tap at the door, and the servant entered with a letter for her master. Mr. Quaggles took it languidly, but had only read a few words when he jumped up, and began to execute a sort of war-dance. "What's the matter, Thomas? Is it that long pain again ?" anxiously inquired Mrs. Quagglea. " No, no ! Wfcat do you think — poor old Uncle James ia dead, and has left me five thousand pounds !" " You don't mean to say so ! How good of him to die — I moan to leave you five thousand pounds. But, Thomas, what a pity it has arrived too late !" " Arrived too late ! What do you mean, Jemima?" "Why, ain't you just going to die, Thomas?" "I don't know that I am. I can change my mind if I like, can't 1?" asked Mr. Quaggles, somewhat indignantly. "But how can you possibly live with that liver of yours ?" persisted his wife. "Liver be hanged!" exclaimed Mr. Quaggles. "If live thou u and pounds won't cure it, it isn't worthy to be called a liver. I tell you, Jemima, • I'm — five thousand pounds! — going to — fancy, five thoubacd pounds ! — get well right away. Whoop! Five thousand pounds!" And, strange to say— or, perhaps, not strange to say — Mr. Quaggle.s recovered with marvellous rapidity. He is now one of the healthiest and happiest men in the United Kingdom. Even that "longpain " has gone! __^^_^^____