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I said I wished we had a banana, there was
nothing monkeys liked better.
He said he would telegraph at once to London
for a bunch of bananas, never mind the cost.
I said it was a question of keeping up his
strength. We poured a little warm milk into
his mouth, but he spat it out at once.
“He cannot swallow any more,” groaned
his master, “I know what it means, he is
dying.”
We improvised with a sound a sort of feeding
tube and this time he kept the milk to the delight
of the old doctor.
Billy got slowly better. I saw him every day
for a fortnight, and I ended by becoming quite
fond both of him and his master. Soon I found
him sitting in his specially constructed
rocking-chair on their sunny terrace by the side of his
master, a bottle of whisky on the table between
them. The old doctor was a great believer in
whisky to steady one’s hand before an operation.
To judge from the number of empty whisky
bottles in the corner of the terrace his surgical
practice must have been considerable. Alas!
they were both addicted to drink, I had often
caught Billy helping himself to a little whisky
and soda out of his master’s glass. The doctor
had told me whisky was the best possible tonic
for monkeys, it had saved the life of Billy’s
beloved mother after her pneumonia. One
evening I came upon them on their terrace, both blind
drunk. Billy was executing a sort of negro
dance on the table round the whisky bottle,
the old doctor sat leaning back in his chair
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