Life — November 25, 1915 — page 31: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

“iE NEE Malice in Blunderland UT there's nothing the matter with me!” feebly protested the gentle- man whom Malice called “the Duch- ess’s husband,” as they laid him forc- ibly on the operating table and began a general whittling of tools, prepara- tory to work. Old Dr. Turtle, a shell- back physician, glared across at an in- tellectual Rabbit who, spectacles on nose, stood testing the edge of a small jig-saw. “What did the patient say?” in- quired Dr. Turtle crossly. “It doesn’t matter, Doctor, what he says,” replied Dr. Rabbit. “He's un- der anzsthetics, you know.” “You haven’t given me any yet,” persisted the patient, whereat two Doc- tors and a Caterpiller in nurse's uni- form looked embarrassed. “What could we have been think- ing of?" asked several assistant sur- geons in unison. A school of sharks, to whom, as a class, the Turtle had been lecturing, applauded vigor- ously, “Thad my mind on the bill,” growled Dr. Turtle. “I wish you other fellows would concentrate on your business the way I do.” This rebuke seemed to cause a great stir in the medical profession, and Malice, as an onlooker, was quite thrilled at the excitable manner in which the various doctors present be- gan putting down figures in an account book. One brilliant young Ostrich, re- cently graduated from the College of Physicians and Surgeons, had the pres- ence of mind to ring up Bradstreet's and look up the patient’s exact com- mercial rating. “ A-1," announced the Ostrich, turn- ing from the telephone. “That means, of course, that it’s appendicitis,” said the Turtle in a satis- fied tone as he approached the patient’s abdomen with an instrument resem- bling a very sharp trowel. “Not necessarily,” hooted an Owl, who stood at the head of the table, prepared to administer gas with all the cruelty of a German soldier. “I'm Hl—Fun Among the Surgeons “But there's nothing the matter with me!" feebly protested the gentleman. sure he can afford a stomach operation —most of our wealthy patients prefer that.” “Perhaps his stomach doesn’t need shrieked little Malice nervously. My dear,” replied the Turtle pat- ronizingly, “you don't understand stomachs in the least. It isn’t at all a matter of what a stomach needs—it's what it craves. This is a twelve-mil- lion-dollar stomach, my child. All its years it has been fed on vintage wines, truffles, imported game, hothouse vege- tables, exotic desserts. It’s three times its natural size and lined with a sort of peptic fungus resembling rare orchids, Nothing short of a ten-thou- sand-dollar operation would satisfy a stomach like that.” “Tush—it isn’t stomach trouble!” squeaked Dr. Rabbit. “It’s paranoia— I'm a nerve specialist.” “It's not!” grunted a bear, flourish- ing a bottle of mineral water. “I pro- nounce it gout—I'm a uric-acid ex- pert.” “Well,” volunteered the Turtle, staying the fatal stroke, “there seems to be some confusion in diagnosis. Be- fore making the incision we had better take a straw vote. What do you think is the matter with him, learned con- freres?” Whereat the assembled physicians, raising a great babel, pompously ex- pressed the following opinions: “ Appendicitis!” “ Asthma!” Gout!" Necrosis of the brain!” Plural pneumonia!” “Necromantic, neoplastic, mic, arterial sclerosis!” “ Nothing!" The latter opinion was not expressed by a doctor at all, but came from little Malice as a lay opinion. “Who said ‘nothing ’?” inquired the Turtle harshly. “TI did,” defiantly replied Malice. “Well, continue to say it,” com- manded the shell-backed savant. “It’s plain to be seen,” remarked the young Ostrich brilliantly, “that there is a decided difference of opinion among us. Now the whole case can be reduced by the simplest rules of logic. Either we are all right or all wrong.” “If we are all right,” said the Rab- bit, “the ethical thing is to go ahead and operate on everything mentioned.” “And if we are all wrong,” chimed in the Bear, “ we ought to do the same thing.” “That's the usual procedure, I think, in surgery,” agreed the Owl with a very wise air. “But, gentlemen,” said the patient, suddenly sitting up and addressing the consultation, “before you proceed fur- ther may I—” “You may not!” snapped the Tur- tle, pushing him back to a prostrate position, “But you are making a dreadful mistake,” moaned the man on the table. “T frequently do,” growled Dr. Bear, “but I never admit it.” “No competent surgeon agreed the Owl eagerly. “Not a medical mistake—a mistake in personality,” protested the subject. “Do you really know who you're oper- ating on?” “The Duke of St. Regis—the wealthiest man in New York,” prompt- ly responded the surgical chorus ophthal- does,” comicbooks.com