"Oh, Mr. Porter, it ain't good
enough!"
"No, pounds, my dear madam," Charles responded. "Pounds sterling,
you know. In United States currency, seven thousand five hundred."
"I guess Elihu would just jump at it," Mrs. Quackenboss replied,
looking at him quizzically.
The doctor laughed. "You make a good bid, sir," he said, in his slow
American way, emphasising all the most unimportant words: "_But_ you
overlook one element. I _am_ a man of science, not a speculator. I
_have_ trained myself for medical work, _at_ considerable cost, _in_
the best schools of Europe, _and_ I do not propose _to_ fling away
the results _of_ much arduous labour _by_ throwing myself out
elastically _into_ a new line of work _for_ which my faculties _may_
not perhaps equally adapt me."
("How thoroughly American!" I murmured, in the background.)
Charles insisted; all in vain. Mrs. Quackenboss was impressed; but
the doctor smiled always a sphinx-like smile, and reiterated his
belief in the unfitness of mid-stream as an ideal place for swopping
horses. The more he declined, and the better he talked, the more
eager Charles became each day to secure him. And, as if on purpose
to draw him on, the doctor each day gave more and more surprising
proofs of his practical abilities.
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