"
"Yes," I said, "but you didn't tell me about her tongue and
pulse."
"There wasn't nothin' remarkable about them," said he.
"All of which means," I remarked, "that there is no
fever. But that is not at all a necessary accompaniment of brain
derangements. How about the dilatation of her pupils?"
"There isn't none," said Uncle Beamish; "they are ruther
squinched up, if anything. And as to delirium, I couldn't see no
signs of it, and when I asked the old lady about the numbness,
she said she didn't believe there had been any."
"No tendency to shiver, no disposition to stretch?"
"No," said the old man, "no chance for quinine."
"The trouble is," said I, standing before the stove and
fixing my mind upon the case with earnest intensity, "that there
are so few symptoms in brain derangement. If I could only get
hold of something tangible--"
"If I was you," interrupted Uncle Beamish, "I wouldn't try to
get hold of nothin'. I would just give her somethin' to keep her
where she is till mornin'. If you can do that, I'll guarantee
that any good doctor can take her up and go on with her to-
morrow."
Without noticing the implication contained in these remarks, I
continued my consideration of the case.
"If I could get a drop of her blood," said I.
"No, no!" exclaimed Uncle Beamish, "I'm not goin' to do
anything of that sort. What in the name of common sense would
you do with her blood?"
"I would examine it microscopically," I said.
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