§ 285 The Kink in Mr. Jones
Mr. Jones was one of those nervous persons, and inclined to hypochondria. His imagination, from time to time, afflicted him with maladies which never really materialized. Nevertheless, his devoted wife continued to share his apprehensions at each fresh alarm.
One afternoon, long before his usual hour for returning from business, he fell into the house. His face was white as chalk, and in his eyes was a stricken look. He was bent forward. He tottered to a chair, and, still curled into a half-moon shape, dropped into it.
“Maria,” he gasped, “it’s come at last! I’ll never be a well man again!”
“Merciful Heavens!” she cried. “Henry, what has happened?”
“There was no warning,” he said. “All of a sudden, a while ago, I found I couldn’t straighten up. I can’t lift my head. I feel all drawn.”
“Is there any pain?” she asked, fluttering about in her distress.
“No,” he said, “there’s no pain—that’s what makes me think it must be paralysis. Run for the doctor!”
She ran. Returning in a few minutes, she brought with her the family physician. She ushered him into the room where the sufferer was and waited at the door, wringing her hands and dreading the worst.
Almost immediately the physician emerged. He had his face in his hands and his shoulders heaved and shook as though under the stress of an uncontrollable emotion.
“Oh, doctor,” cried the agonized Mrs. Jones, “is there any hope for him?”
“Well, madam,” he said, “it’ll help a good deal if he’ll unhitch the third buttonhole of his vest from the top button of his trousers.”