Three Men in a Boat

The Project Gutenberg eBook, Three Men in a Boat, by Jerome K. Jerome, Illustrated by A. Frederics This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Three Men in a Boat (to say nothing of the dog) Author: Jerome K. Jerome Release Date: October 19, 2010 [eBook #308] First Posted: August 28, 1995 Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE MEN IN A BOAT*** Transcribed from the 1889 J. W. Arrowsmith edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org Second proof by Margaret Price. THREE MEN IN A BOAT (_TO SAY NOTHING OF THE DOG_). * * * * * BY JEROME K. JEROME AUTHOR OF “IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW,” “STAGE LAND,” ETC. Illustrations by A. Frederics. [Picture: Decorative graphic] BRISTOL J. W. ARROWSMITH, 11 QUAY STREET LONDON SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO. LIMITED * * * * * 1889 _All rights reserved_ PREFACE. _The chief beauty of this book lies not so much in its literary style_, _or in the extent and usefulness of the information it conveys_, _as in its simple truthfulness_. _Its pages form the record of events that really happened_. _All that has been done is to colour them_; _and_, _for this_, _no extra charge has been made_. _George and Harris and Montmorency are not poetic ideals_, _but things of flesh and blood—especially George_, _who weighs about twelve stone_. _Other works may excel this in depth of thought and knowledge of human nature: other books may rival it in originality and size_; _but_, _for hopeless and incurable veracity_, _nothing yet discovered can surpass it_. _This_, _more than all its other charms_, _will_, _it is felt_, _make the volume precious in the eye of the earnest reader_; _and will lend additional weight to the lesson that the story teaches_. LONDON, _August_, 1889. [Picture: Graphic of three men in a rowing boat] CHAPTER I. Three invalids.—Sufferings of George and Harris.—A victim to one hundred and seven fatal maladies.—Useful prescriptions.—Cure for liver complaint in children.—We agree that we are overworked, and need rest.—A week on the rolling deep?—George suggests the River.—Montmorency lodges an objection.—Original motion carried by majority of three to one. There were four of us—George, and William Samuel Harris, and myself, and Montmorency. We were sitting in my room, smoking, and talking about how bad we were—bad from a medical point of view I mean, of course. We were all feeling seedy, and we were getting quite nervous about it. Harris said he felt such extraordinary fits of giddiness come over him at times, that he hardly knew what he was doing; and then George said that _he_ had fits of giddiness too, and hardly knew what _he_ was doing. With me, it was my liver that was out of order. I knew it was my liver that was out of order, because I had just been reading a patent liver-pill circular, in which were detailed the various symptoms by which a man could tell when his liver was out of order. I had them all. It is a most extraordinary thing, but I never read a patent medicine advertisement without being impelled to the conclusion that I am suffering from the particular disease therein dealt with in its most virulent form. The diagnosis seems in every case to correspond exactly with all the sensations that I have ever felt. [Picture: Man reading book] I remember going to the British Museum one day to read up the treatment for some slight ailment of which I had a touch—hay fever, I fancy it was. I got down the book, and read all I came to read; and then, in an unthinking moment, I idly turned the leaves, and began to indolently study diseases, generally. I forget which was the first distemper I plunged into—some fearful, devastating scourge, I know—and, before I had glanced half down the list of “premonitory symptoms,” it was borne in upon me that I had fairly got it. I sat for awhile, frozen with horror; and then, in the listlessness of despair, I again turned over the pages. I came to typhoid fever—read the symptoms—discovered that I had typhoid fever, must have had it for months without knowing it—wondered what else I had got; turned up St. Vitus’s Dance—found, as I expected, that I had that too,—began to get interested in my case, and determined to sift it to the bottom, and so started alphabetically—read up ague, and learnt that I was sickening for it, and that the acute stage would commence in about another fortnight. Bright’s disease, I was relieved to find, I had only in a modified form, and, so far as that was concerned, I might live for years. Cholera I had, with severe complications; and diphtheria I seemed to have been born with. I plodded conscientiously through the twenty-six letters, and the only malady I could conclude I had not got was housemaid’s knee. I felt rather hurt about this at first; it seemed somehow to be a sort of slight. Why hadn’t I got housemaid’s knee? Why this invidious reservation? After a while, however, less grasping feelings prevailed. I reflected that I had every other known malady in the pharmacology, and I grew less selfish, and determined to do without housemaid’s knee. Gout, in its most malignant stage, it would appear, had seized me without my being aware of it; and zymosis I had evidently been suffering with from boyhood. There were no more diseases after zymosis, so I concluded there was nothing else the matter with me. I sat and pondered. I thought what an interesting case I must be from a medical point of view, what an acquisition I should be to a class! Students would have no need to “walk the hospitals,” if they had me. I was a hospital in myself. All they need do would be to walk round me, and, after that, take their diploma. Then I wondered how long I had to live. I tried to examine myself. I felt my pulse. I could not at first feel any pulse at all. Then, all of a sudden, it seemed to start off. I pulled out my watch and timed it. I made it a hundred and forty-seven to the minute. I tried to feel my heart. I could not feel my heart. It had stopped beating. I have since been induced to come to the opinion that it must have been there all the time, and must have been beating, but I cannot account for it. I patted myself all over my front, from what I call my waist up to my head, and I went a bit round each side, and a little way up the back. But I could not feel or hear anything. I tried to look at my tongue. I stuck it out as far as ever it would go, and I shut one eye, and tried to examine it with the other. I could only see the tip, and the only thing that I could gain from that was to feel more certain than before that I had scarlet fever.