"I want you to sign this," said he.
The doctor scowled over the paper, got out his iron-bowed spectacles,
adjusted them, and read aloud:
"I, Justinus Emmons, practising doctor of medicine, do hereby declare
that the death of Lot Gordon of Ware Centre will, when it takes
place, be due to phthisis, and phthisis alone, and not in any degree,
however small, to the wound inflicted by himself some months since.
And, furthermore, I declare that his death will follow from the
natural progress of the disease of phthisis, which has not in any
respect been accelerated by his self-inflicted wound."
"You want me to sign this, do you?" said the doctor.
"I will call in Margaret Bean and her husband for witnesses," said
Lot.
"You think I am going to sign this?"
"I want it in addition to the certificate of the cause of death which
you will have to make out after my decease. 'Tis an unnecessary
formality, but I would have it so," Lot returned.
The doctor dashed the paper on the bed. "If you think I am going to
subscribe to a lie for you, or any other man, you're mistaken," he
cried. "It was enough for me to hold my tongue when you made that
fool statement of yours that wouldn't have deceived a man with the
brains of an ox.
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