Dr. Harvey Wiley tells the following story: Sleepily, after a night off, a certain interne hastened to his hospital ward. The first patient was a stout old Irishman.
How goes it? he inquired.
Faith, it'sh me breathin', doctor. I can't get me breath at all, at all.
Why, your pulse is normal. Let me examine the lung-action, replied the doctor, kneeling beside the cot and laying his head on the ample chest.
Now, let's hear you talk, he continued, closing his eyes and listening.
What'll Oi be sayin', doctor?
Oh, say anything. Count one, two, three, and up, murmured the interne, drowsily.
Wan, two, three, four, five, six, began the patient. When the young doctor, with a start, opened his eyes, he was counting huskily: "Tin hundred an' sixty-nine, tin hundred an' sivinty, tin hundred an' sivinty-wan."