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Updated: May 20, 2025
He had just regained his chair when the door opened and a gentleman stepped in. "Ah, Mr. Brewster! Better to-day?" he asked. "Come in, doctor! Yes, I'm better. But there's a deal o' bubbling in my chest. It's all them toobes. If I could but cut the phlegm, I'd be right. Can't you give me something to cut the phlegm?"
The Shattered Health of Mr. Podge "How are you, Podge?" I said, as I sat down in a leather armchair beside him. Last week I was feeling pretty good part of the time, but yesterday about four o'clock the air turned humid, and I don't feel so well." "Have a cigarette?" I said. "No, thanks; I find they affect the bronchial toobes." "Whose?" I asked. "Mine," he answered.
He got such a fright that he signalled violently to haul up, an' they did haul 'im up, expectin' to find one of his glasses broke, or his toobes bu'sted. There was nothin' wotsomedever the matter with 'im, but he wouldn't go down again that day. 'Owsever, he got over it, an' after that went down to work at a wreck somewhere in the eastern seas not far from Ceylon, I'm told.
"Better, surely, had he died under the blazing rafters of the Belgian farmhouse," thought the colonel. "I hope that you are pretty comfortable and happy," he remarked after a pause. "Thank ye, sir. I have a good deal o' trouble with my toobes a deal o' trouble. You wouldn't think the job it is to cut the phlegm. And I need my rations. I gets cold without 'em. And the flies!
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