Of course, the practice of medicine and surgery in a remote country district has its disadvantages, but in my case I am happy in a division of responsibility.  I practise in conjunction with a horse-doctor, a sexton, and an undertaker.  The combination is air-tight, and once a man is stricken in our district escape is impossible for him.

These four of us—­three in the regular profession and the fourth an undertaker—­are all good men.  There is Bill Ferguson, the Redding undertaker.  Bill is there in every respect.  He is a little lukewarm on general practice, and writes his name with a rubber stamp.  Like my old Southern, friend, he is one of the finest planters anywhere.

Then there is Jim Ruggles, the horse-doctor.  Ruggles is one of the best men I have got.  He also is not much on general medicine, but he is a fine horse-doctor.  Ferguson doesn’t make any money off him.

You see, the combination started this way.  When I got up to Redding and had become a doctor, I looked around to see what my chances were for aiding in, the great work.  The first thing I did was to determine what manner of doctor I was to be.  Being a Connecticut farmer, I naturally consulted my farmacopia, and at once decided to become a farmeopath.

Then I got circulating about, and got in touch with Ferguson and Ruggles.  Ferguson joined readily in my ideas, but Ruggles kept saying that, while it was all right for an undertaker to get aboard, he couldn’t see where it helped horses.

Well, we started to find out what was the trouble with the community, and it didn’t take long to find out that there was just one disease, and that was race-suicide.  And driving about the country-side I was told by my fellow-farmers that it was the only rational human and valuable disease.  But it is cutting into our profits so that we’ll either have to stop it or we’ll have to move.

We’ve had some funny experiences up there in Redding.  Not long ago a fellow came along with a rolling gait and a distressed face.  We asked him what was the matter.  We always hold consultations on every case, as there isn’t business enough for four.  He said he didn’t know, but that he was a sailor, and perhaps that might help us to give a diagnosis.  We treated him for that, and I never saw a man die more peacefully.

That same afternoon my dog Tige treed an African gentleman.  We chained up the dog, and then the gentleman came down and said he had appendicitis.  We asked him if he wanted to be cut open, and he said yes, that he’d like to know if there was anything in it.  So we cut him open and found nothing in him but darkness.  So we diagnosed his case as infidelity, because he was dark inside.  Tige is a very clever dog, and aids us greatly.

The other day a patient came to me and inquired if I was old Doctor Clemens—­

As a practitioner I have given a great deal of my attention to Bright’s disease.  I have made some rules for treating it that may be valuable.  Listen: