My Friend The Murderer
By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
8 Sep, 2019
"Number 481 is no better, doctor," said the head-warder, in a slightly reproachful accent, looking in round the corner of my door. "Confound 481" I responded from behind the pages of the _Australian Sketcher_. "And 61 says his tubes are paining him.
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"Number 481 is no better, doctor," said the head-warder, in a slightly reproachful accent, looking in round the corner of my door. "Confound 481" I responded from behind the pages of the _Australian Sketcher_. "And 61 says his tubes are paining him. Couldn't you do anything for him?" "He is a walking drug-shop," said I. "He has the whole British pharmacopaae inside him. I believe his tubes are as sound as yours are." "Then there's 7 and 108, they are chronic," continued the warder, glancing down a blue slip of paper. "And 28 knocked off work yesterday--said lifting things gave him a stitch in the side. I want you to have a look at him, if you don't mind, doctor. There's 81, too--him that killed John Adamson in the Corinthian brig--he's been carrying on awful in the night, shrieking and yelling, he has, and no stopping him either." "All right, I'll have a look at him afterward," I said, tossing my paper carelessly aside, and pouring myself out a cup of coffee. "Nothing else to report, I suppose, warder?" The official protruded his head a little further into the room. "Beg pardon, doctor," he said, in a confidential tone, "but I notice as 82 has a bit of a cold, and it would be a good excuse for you to visit him and have a chat, maybe." The cup of coffee was arrested half-way to my lips as I stared in amazement at the man's serious face. Less
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