leaving this unhappy world. Then I migrated to London, having sold the Okehampton practice.
I bought a partnership in the West End, but I did not agree with my colleague very well, and it became necessary very shortly for one of us to go.
He went.
In a most inexplicable manner he contracted an attack of erysipelas, and this, instead of clearing up, as it should have done, became worse and ultimately killed him.
I had at the time a very severe case of erysipelas among my patients, and I cannot help thinking that he contracted his attack through me.
It was this way. I had taken some swabs of fluid, alive, of course, with the bacillus of erysipelas, and stupidly forgot to put them away.
The swabs were left in the surgery with some pins sticking in them, and he, knowing nothing about them, picked up the innocent-looking fragments of cotton-wool containing the poison—and the pins—and threw them away.
I fear that he pricked his finger badly while so doing, and consequently infected himself.
