I have watched our young Doctor, however, and
have been entirely unable to detect any signs of communication between
him and this audacious child, who is like to become a power among us, for
that popgun is fatal to any talker who is hit by its pellet. I have
suspected a foot under the table as the prompter, but I have been unable
to detect the slightest movement or look as if he were making one, on the
part of Dr. Benjamin Franklin. I cannot help thinking of the flappers in
Swift's Laputa, only they gave one a hint when to speak and another a
hint to listen, whereas the popgun says unmistakably, "Shut up!"
--I should be sorry to lose my confidence in Dr. B. Franklin, who seems
very much devoted to his business, and whom I mean to consult about some
small symptoms I have had lately. Perhaps it is coming to a new
boarding-house. The young people who come into Paris from the provinces
are very apt--so I have been told by one that knows--to have an attack of
typhoid fever a few weeks or months after their arrival. I have not been
long enough at this table to get well acclimated; perhaps that is it.
Boarding-House Fever. Something like horse-ail, very likely,--horses get
it, you know, when they are brought to city stables. A little "off my
feed," as Hiram Woodruff would say. A queer discoloration about my
forehead.
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