I won, that time. The razor's
in the yard. But I'll never dare to try shaving myself again.
DOCTOR. And do you seriously require me to tell you the cause,
Mr. Hobson?
HOBSON. I'm paying thee brass to tell me.
DOCTOR. Chronic alcoholism, if you know that what means.
HOBSON. Aye.
DOCTOR. A serious case.
HOBSON. I know it's serious. What do you think you're here for?
It isn't to tell me something I know already. It's to cure me.
DOCTOR. Very well. I will write you a prescription. (_Produces
notebook. Sits at table and writes with copying pencil_.)
HOBSON. Stop that!
DOCTOR. I beg your pardon?
HOBSON. I won't take it. None of your druggist's muck for me. I'm
particular about what I put into my stomach.
DOCTOR. Mr. Hobson, if you don't mend your manners, I'll certify
you for a lunatic asylum. Are you aware that you've drunk
yourself within six months of the grave? You'd a warning this
morning that any sane man would listen to and you're going to
listen to it, sir.
HOBSON. By taking your prescription?
DOCTOR. Precisely. You will take this mixture, Mr. Hobson, and
you will practise total abstinence for the future.
HOBSON. You ask me to give up my reasonable refreshment!
DOCTOR. I forbid alcohol absolutely.
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