LITMIR.BIZ

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him?” asked Mother, unthinkingly.

      “They found him hanging from the chandelier, scratching himself and saying he was Mr. Hyde.”

      “Come on now, Larry, stop fooling about,” said Mother firmly.

      With much fussing, Larry was prevailed upon to take the medicine and retire to bed.

      The following morning we were all woken at an inordinately early hour by roars of rage coming from Larry’s room.

      “Mother! Mother!” he was roaring. “Come and look what you’ve done!”

      We found him prancing around his room, naked, a large mirror in one hand. He turned on Mother belligerently, and she gasped at the sight of him. His face was swollen up to about twice normal size and was the approximate color of a tomato.

      “What have you been doing, dear?” asked Mother faintly.

      “Doing? It’s what you’ve done,” he shouted, articulating with difficulty. “You and bloody Theodore and your damned medicine. It’s affected my pituitary. Look at me! It’s worse than Jekyll and Hyde.”

      Mother put on her spectacles and gazed at Larry.

      “It looks to me as though you’ve got mumps,” she said, puzzled.

      “Nonsense! That’s a child’s disease,” said Larry impatiently. “No, it’s that damned medicine of Theodore’s. I tell you, it’s affected my pituitary. If you don’t get the antidote straight away, I shall grow into a giant.”

      “Nonsense, dear, I’m sure it’s mumps,” said Mother, “but it’s very funny, because I’m sure you’ve had mumps. Let’s see, Margo had measles in Darjeeling in 1920 … Leslie had sprue in Rangoon – no, I’m wrong, that was 1900 in Rangoon and you had sprue. Then Leslie had chicken pox in Bombay in 1911 … or was it 12? I can’t quite remember. And then you had your tonsils out in Rajaputana in 1922, or it may have been 1923, I can’t remember exactly, and then after that, Margo got – ”

      “I hate to interrupt this Old Moore’s Almanac of Family Ailments,” said Larry coldly, “but would somebody like to send for the antidote before I get so big I can’t leave the room?”

      Theodore, when he appeared, agreed with Mother’s diagnosis.

      “Yes … er … um … clearly a case of mumps,” he said.

      “What do you mean, clearly, you charlatan?” said Larry, glaring at him from watering and swollen eyes. “Why didn’t you know what it was yesterday? And anyhow, I can’t get mumps, it’s a child’s disease.”

      “No, no,” said Theodore. “Children generally get it, but quite often adults get it too.”

      “Why didn’t you recognize a common disease like that when you saw it?” demanded Larry. “Can’t even recognize a mump when you see it? You ought to be drummed out of the medical council or whatever it is that they do for malpractice.”

      “Mumps are very difficult to diagnose in the … er … early stages,” said Theodore, “until the swellings appear.”

      “Typical of the medical profession,” said Larry bitterly. “They can’t even spot a disease until the patient is twice life-size. It’s a scandal.”

      “As long as it doesn’t affect your … um … you know … um … your … er … lower quarters,” said Theodore thoughtfully, “you should be all right in a few days.”

      “Lower quarters?” Larry asked, mystified. “What lower quarters?”

      “Well, er … you know … mumps causes swelling of the glands,” explained Theodore, “and so if it travels down the body and affects the glands in your … um … lower quarters, it can be very painful indeed.”

      “You mean I’ll swell up and start looking like a bull elephant?” asked Larry in horror.

      “Mmm, er … yes,” said Theodore, finding he could not better this description.

      “It’s a plot to make me sterile!” shouted Larry. “You and your bloody tincture of bat’s blood! You’re jealous of my virility.”

      To say that Larry was a bad patient would be putting it mildly. He had an enormous hand-bell by the bed which he rang incessantly for attention, and Mother had to examine his nether regions about twenty times a day to assure him that he was not in any way affected. When it was discovered that it was Leonora’s baby that had given him mumps, he threatened to excommunicate it.

      “I’m its godfather,” he said. “Why can’t I excommunicate the ungrateful little bastard?”

      By the fourth day we were all beginning to feel the strain, and then Captain Creech appeared to see Larry. Captain Creech, a retired mariner of lecherous habits, was mother’s bête noire. His determined pursuit of anything female, and Mother in particular, in spite of his seventy-odd years, was a constant source of annoyance to her, as were the captain’s completely uninhibited behavior and one-track mind.

      “Ahoy!” he shouted, staggering into the bedroom, his lopsided jaw waggling, his wispy beard and hair standing on end, his rheumy eyes watering. “Ahoy, there! Bring out your dead!”

      Mother, who was just examining Larry for the fourth time that day, straightened up and glared at him.

      “Do you mind, Captain?” she said coldly. “This is supposed to be a sickroom, not a bar parlor.”

      “Got you in the bedroom at last!” said Creech, beaming, taking no notice of Mother’s expression. “Now, if the boy moves over; we can have a little cuddle.”

      “I’m far too busy to cuddle, thank you,” said Mother frostily.

      “Well, well,” said the captain, seating himself on the bed, “what’s this namby-pamby mumps thing you’ve got, huh, boy? Child stuff! If you want to be ill, be ill properly, like a man. Why, when I was your age, nothing but a dose of clap would have done for me.”

      “Captain, I would be glad if you would not reminisce in front of Gerry,” said Mother firmly.

      “It hasn’t affected the old manhood, has it?” asked the captain with concern. “Terrible when it gets you in the crutch. Can ruin a man’s sex life, mumps in the crutch.”

      “Larry is perfectly all right, thank you,” said Mother with dignity.

      “Talking of crutches,” said the captain, “have you heard about the young Hindu virgin from Kutch? Who kept two tame snakes in her crutch? She said when they wriggle, it’s a bit of a giggle, but my boyfriends don’t like my crutch much. Ha ha ha!”

      “Really, Captain!” said Mother, outraged. “I do wish you wouldn’t recite poetry in front of Gerry.”

      “Got your mail. I was passing the post office,” the captain went on, oblivious of Mother’s strictures, pulling it out of his pocket and tossing it onto the bed. “My, they’ve got a nice little bit serving in there now. She’d win a prize for the best marrows in any horticultural show.”

      But Larry was not listening; he had extracted a postcard from the mail Captain Creech had brought and, having read it, he started to laugh uproariously.

      “What is it, dear?” asked Mother.

      “A postcard from the count,” said Larry, wiping his eyes.

      “Oh, him,” sniffed Mother, “well, I don’t want to know about him.”

      “Oh, yes, you will,” said Larry. “It’s worth being ill just to be able to get this. I’m starting to feel better already.”

      He picked up the postcard and read it out to us. The count had obviously got someone to write the card for him,

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