When I called two days later I found Spencer with him. The patient was in bed suffering from spasms, especially of the muscles of deglutition and respiration, with excitement evidenced by delirium.
"This is a curious case," the smart, elderly practitioner declared, as we both stood beside the unconscious man. "At present, I've not been able to diagnose it properly."
I pretended to make an effort to diagnose it, but without avail.
Next day I called before Spencer arrived, and found Davies conscious again.
"By Jove, d'Escombe," he exclaimed. "I'm having a bad time. But you'll pull me through, won't you, old chap?" he implored me.
"Of course we'll get you right again," I assured him. Then, with a few comforting words, I left.
Really, I felt rather sorry for him, because I knew of the agony that must ensue.
On Wednesday, when I called at eleven, Spencer was again with him, but he was again unconscious.
"Rabies," declared the doctor. "Yesterday, he told me that he had been bitten by a farmer's dog while out shooting, nine months
