My Friend The Murderer
Mystery & Suspense, International, Fiction & Literature, Action Suspense, Classics
| Author: | Arthur Conan Doyle | ISBN: | 1230002908441 |
| Publisher: | GOLDEN CLASSIC PRESS | Publication: | November 23, 2018 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | Arthur Conan Doyle |
| ISBN: | 1230002908441 |
| Publisher: | GOLDEN CLASSIC PRESS |
| Publication: | November 23, 2018 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
*** Original and Unabridged Content. Made available by GOLDEN CLASSIC PRESS***
Synopsis:
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.
*** Original and Unabridged Content. Made available by GOLDEN CLASSIC PRESS***
Synopsis:
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.
