"
"Is it a pecuniary affair?"
"No, no, if it was it might be borne, an artful dodge, a good
spekelation, or a regular burst would soon cure that."
"I hope it ain't an affair of law," said he, lookin' frightened to
death, as if I had done something dreadful bad.
"No, I wish it was, for a misnomer, an alibi, a nonjoinder, a
demurrer, a nonsuit, a freemason or a know-nothin' sign to a juror, a
temperance wink, or an orange nod to a partisan judge, or some cussed
quirk or quibble or another, would carry me through it. No, it ain't
that."
"What is it then?"
"Why," sais I, a bustin' out a larfin, "I am most dead sometimes with
the jumpin' toothache."
"Well, well," said he, "I never was sold so before, I vow; I cave in,
I holler, and will stand treat."
That's the way we ended our controversy about wounds.
But he may say what he likes. I consider myself rather a dab at
healing bodily ones. As to those of the heart, I haven't had the
experience, for I am not a father confessor to galls, and of course
ain't consulted. But it appears to me clergymen don't know much about
the right way to treat them. The heart is a great word. In itself it's
nothin' but a thing that swells and contracts, and keeps the blood a
movin; a sort of central post-office that communicates with all the
great lines and has way stations to all remote parts. Like that, there
is no sleep in it day or night.
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