My Friend The Murderer Arthur Conan Doyle Arthur Conan Doyle Author

Number 481 is no better, doctor, said the head-warder, in a slightly reproachful accent, looking in round the corner of my door. Confound 481 I responded from behind the pages of the Australian Sketcher. And 61 says his tubes are paining him. Couldn'... Read more

Number 481 is no better, doctor, said the head-warder, in a slightly reproachful accent, looking in round the corner of my door. Confound 481 I responded from behind the pages of the Australian Sketcher. And 61 says his tubes are paining him. Couldn't you do anything for him? He is a walking drug-shop, said I. He has the whole British pharmacopaae inside him. I believe his tubes are as sound as yours are. Then there's 7 and 108, they are chronic, continued the warder, glancing down a blue slip of paper. And 28 knocked off work yesterday-said lifting things gave him a stitch in the side. I want you to have a look at him, if you don't mind, doctor. There's 81, too-him that killed John Adamson in the Corinthian brig-he's been carrying on awful in the night, shrieking and yelling, he has, and no stopping him either. All right, I'll have a look at him afterward, I said, tossing my paper carelessly aside, and pouring myself out a cup of coffee. Nothing else to report, I suppose, warder? The official protruded his head a little further into the room. Beg pardon, doctor, he said, in a confidential tone, but I notice as 82 has a bit of a cold, and it would be a good excuse for you to visit him and have a chat, maybe. The cup of coffee was arrested half-way to my lips as I stared in amazement at the man's serious face. Less