great mistake. He disliked the close proximity of doctors. They were equally annoying in real and imaginary diseases.
William made little brave reassuring noises to inform his father that he’d rather the doctor wasn’t troubled and it was all right, and please no one was to bother about him, and
he’d just stay in bed and probably be all right by the afternoon. But his father had already gone.
William lay in bed and considered his position.
Well, he was going to stick to it, anyway. He’d just make noises to the doctor, and they couldn’t say he hadn’t got a pain where he said he had if they didn’t know where
he said he had one. His mother came in and took his temperature. Fate was against him. There was no hot-water bottle handy. But he squeezed it as hard as he could in a vague hope that that would
have some effect on it.
‘It’s normal, dear,’ said his mother, relieved. ‘I’m so glad.’
He made a sinister noise to imply that the malady was too deep-seated to be shown by an ordinary thermometer.
He could hear the doctor and his father coming up the stairs. They were laughing and talking. William, forgetting the imaginary nature of his complaint, felt a wave of indignation and
self-pity.
The doctor came in breezily. ‘Well, young man,’ he said, ‘what’s the trouble?’
William made his noise. By much practice he was becoming an expert at the noise. It implied an intense desire to explain his symptoms, thwarted by physical incapability, and it thrilled with
suffering bravely endured.
‘Can’t speak – is that it?’ said the doctor.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ said William, forgetting his role for the minute.
‘Well – open your mouth, and let’s have a look at your throat,’ said the doctor.
William opened his mouth and revealed his throat. The doctor inspected the recesses of that healthy and powerful organ.
‘I see,’ he said at last. ‘Yes – very bad. But I can operate here and now, fortunately. I’m afraid I can’t give an anaesthetic in this case, and I’m
afraid it will be rather painful – but I’m sure he’s a brave boy.’
William went pale and looked around desperately, French verbs were preferable to this.
‘I’ll wait just three minutes,’ said the doctor kindly. ‘Occasionally in cases like this the patient recovers his voice quite suddenly.’ He took out his watch.
William’s father was watching the scene with an air of enjoyment that William found maddening. ‘I’ll give him just three minutes,’ went on the doctor, ‘and if the
patient hasn’t recovered the power of speech by then, I’ll operate—’
The patient decided hastily to recover the power of speech.
‘I can speak now,’ he said with an air of surprise. ‘Isn’t it funny? I can talk quite ordinary now. It came on quite sudden.’
‘No pain anywhere?’ said the doctor.
‘No,’ said the patient quickly.
The patient’s father stepped forward.
‘Then you’d better get up as quickly as you can,’ he said. ‘You’ll be late for school, but doubtless they’ll know how to deal with that.’
They did know how to deal with that. They knew, too, how to deal with William’s complete ignorance on the subject of French verbs. Excuses (and William had many – some of them richly
ingenious) were of no avail. He went home to lunch embittered and disillusioned with life.
‘You’d think knowin’ how to work a motor engine’d be more useful than savin’ French verbs,’ he said. ‘S’pose I turned out an engineer
– well, wot use’d French verbs be to me ’n I’d have to know how to work a motor engine. An’ I was so ill this mornin’ that the doctor wanted to do an
operate on me, but I said I can’t miss school an’ get all behind the others, an’ I came, awful ill, an’ all they did was to carry on something terrible ’cause I was
jus’ a minute or two late an’ jus’ ha’n’t had time to do those old French verbs that aren’t no use to
William made little brave reassuring noises to inform his father that he’d rather the doctor wasn’t troubled and it was all right, and please no one was to bother about him, and
he’d just stay in bed and probably be all right by the afternoon. But his father had already gone.
William lay in bed and considered his position.
Well, he was going to stick to it, anyway. He’d just make noises to the doctor, and they couldn’t say he hadn’t got a pain where he said he had if they didn’t know where
he said he had one. His mother came in and took his temperature. Fate was against him. There was no hot-water bottle handy. But he squeezed it as hard as he could in a vague hope that that would
have some effect on it.
‘It’s normal, dear,’ said his mother, relieved. ‘I’m so glad.’
He made a sinister noise to imply that the malady was too deep-seated to be shown by an ordinary thermometer.
He could hear the doctor and his father coming up the stairs. They were laughing and talking. William, forgetting the imaginary nature of his complaint, felt a wave of indignation and
self-pity.
The doctor came in breezily. ‘Well, young man,’ he said, ‘what’s the trouble?’
William made his noise. By much practice he was becoming an expert at the noise. It implied an intense desire to explain his symptoms, thwarted by physical incapability, and it thrilled with
suffering bravely endured.
‘Can’t speak – is that it?’ said the doctor.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ said William, forgetting his role for the minute.
‘Well – open your mouth, and let’s have a look at your throat,’ said the doctor.
William opened his mouth and revealed his throat. The doctor inspected the recesses of that healthy and powerful organ.
‘I see,’ he said at last. ‘Yes – very bad. But I can operate here and now, fortunately. I’m afraid I can’t give an anaesthetic in this case, and I’m
afraid it will be rather painful – but I’m sure he’s a brave boy.’
William went pale and looked around desperately, French verbs were preferable to this.
‘I’ll wait just three minutes,’ said the doctor kindly. ‘Occasionally in cases like this the patient recovers his voice quite suddenly.’ He took out his watch.
William’s father was watching the scene with an air of enjoyment that William found maddening. ‘I’ll give him just three minutes,’ went on the doctor, ‘and if the
patient hasn’t recovered the power of speech by then, I’ll operate—’
The patient decided hastily to recover the power of speech.
‘I can speak now,’ he said with an air of surprise. ‘Isn’t it funny? I can talk quite ordinary now. It came on quite sudden.’
‘No pain anywhere?’ said the doctor.
‘No,’ said the patient quickly.
The patient’s father stepped forward.
‘Then you’d better get up as quickly as you can,’ he said. ‘You’ll be late for school, but doubtless they’ll know how to deal with that.’
They did know how to deal with that. They knew, too, how to deal with William’s complete ignorance on the subject of French verbs. Excuses (and William had many – some of them richly
ingenious) were of no avail. He went home to lunch embittered and disillusioned with life.
‘You’d think knowin’ how to work a motor engine’d be more useful than savin’ French verbs,’ he said. ‘S’pose I turned out an engineer
– well, wot use’d French verbs be to me ’n I’d have to know how to work a motor engine. An’ I was so ill this mornin’ that the doctor wanted to do an
operate on me, but I said I can’t miss school an’ get all behind the others, an’ I came, awful ill, an’ all they did was to carry on something terrible ’cause I was
jus’ a minute or two late an’ jus’ ha’n’t had time to do those old French verbs that aren’t no use to
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