Not Exactly Attendant Physician

— Permit me space in the Club to give a mere sketch of a Southern gentleman. A type ? By no means, for he is himself only, and only like himself. He is unique. He is a gentleman of the old school, a true blue “ befo’ the war ” Southerner.

His voice is as soft, as deliciously rich, as Jersey cream. His appearance is handsome. His face is beautiful. His hair is tinged with gray, and falls in soft curls on his coat collar.

He and my father are cousins, both physicians. Some few summers ago, this gentleman had driven up from the village where he practiced his profession, to spend a leisure day, that rare thing in a good doctor’s life, with his cousin and brother physician. As a matter of course, their talk soon drifted to “cases,” especially to dangerous and successful surgical operations. It was a talk long continued, — a talk of wounds, cuts, shots, stabs, amputations.

My cousin’s turn came to tell a story.

“ You know of Blank, of our town ? ” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” assented my father.

“ He is a spirited fellow ; he is in every way an admirable man,” continued my cousin. “ About four years ago he had a difficulty, in which he was terribly wounded. He was shot here ; the ball went in just here.”

Then followed further conversation about wounds, all in technical terms ; then talk of treatment, in still more technical terms ; and finally my father said : —

“ He recovered, I suppose ? ”

“ Yes. I am most happy to say his recovery was complete,” was the reply.

“ You attended him ? ” asked my father. “ You were his physician, of course ? ”

“ Well, no,” replied my cousin. “ I was called in only during the latter part of his illness. It — er — er—it was I who shot him.”