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his eye, which seemed to say—”If that’s the bugbear with which you wish to frighten me, you will find that you are mistaken.”

      “Now, doctor, don’t let him talk that way, don’t,” said Lady Scatcherd, with her handkerchief to her eyes.

      “Now, my lady, do you cut it; cut at once,” said Sir Roger, turning hastily round to his better-half; and his better-half, knowing that the province of a woman is to obey, did cut it. But as she went she gave the doctor a pull by the coat’s sleeve, so that thereby his healing faculties might be sharpened to the very utmost.

      “The best woman in the world, doctor; the very best,” said he, as the door closed behind the wife of his bosom.

      “I’m sure of it,” said the doctor.

      “Yes, till you find a better one,” said Scatcherd. “Ha! ha! ha! but good or bad, there are some things which a woman can’t understand, and some things which she ought not to be let to understand.”

      “It’s natural she should be anxious about your health, you know.”

      “I don’t know that,” said the contractor. “She’ll be very well off. All that whining won’t keep a man alive, at any rate.”

      There was a pause, during which the doctor continued his medical examination. To this the patient submitted with a bad grace; but still he did submit.

      “We must turn over a new leaf, Sir Roger; indeed we must.”

      “Bother,” said Sir Roger.

      “Well, Scatcherd; I must do my duty to you, whether you like it or not.”

      “That is to say, I am to pay you for trying to frighten me.”

      “No human nature can stand such shocks as these much longer.”

      “Winterbones,” said the contractor, turning to his clerk, “go down, go down, I say; but don’t be out of the way. If you go to the public-house, by G––––, you may stay there for me. When I take a drop,—that is if I ever do, it does not stand in the way of work.” So Mr Winterbones, picking up his cup again, and concealing it in some way beneath his coat flap, retreated out of the room, and the two friends were alone.

      “Scatcherd,” said the doctor, “you have been as near your God, as any man ever was who afterwards ate and drank in this world.”

      “Have I, now?” said the railway hero, apparently somewhat startled.

      “Indeed you have; indeed you have.”

      “And now I’m all right again?”

      “All right! How can you be all right, when you know that your limbs refuse to carry you? All right! why the blood is still beating round your brain with a violence that would destroy any other brain but yours.”

      “Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Scatcherd. He was very proud of thinking himself to be differently organised from other men. “Ha! ha! ha! Well, and what am I to do now?”

      The whole of the doctor’s prescription we will not give at length. To some of his ordinances Sir Roger promised obedience; to others he objected violently, and to one or two he flatly refused to listen. The great stumbling-block was this, that total abstinence from business for two weeks was enjoined; and that it was impossible, so Sir Roger said, that he should abstain for two days.

      “If you work,” said the doctor, “in your present state, you will certainly have recourse to the stimulus of drink; and if you drink, most assuredly you will die.”

      “Stimulus! Why do you think I can’t work without Dutch courage?”

      “Scatcherd, I know that there is brandy in the room at this moment, and that you have been taking it within these two hours.”

      “You smell that fellow’s gin,” said Scatcherd.

      “I feel the alcohol working within your veins,” said the doctor, who still had his hand on his patient’s arm.

      Sir Roger turned himself roughly in the bed so as to get away from his Mentor, and then he began to threaten in his turn.

      “I’ll tell you what it is, doctor; I’ve made up my mind, and I’ll do it. I’ll send for Fillgrave.”

      “Very well,” said he of Greshamsbury, “send for Fillgrave. Your case is one in which even he can hardly go wrong.”

      “You think you can hector me, and do as you like because you had me under your thumb in other days. You’re a very good fellow, Thorne, but I ain’t sure that you are the best doctor in all England.”

      “You may be sure I am not; you may take me for the worst if you will. But while I am here as your medical adviser, I can only tell you the truth to the best of my thinking. Now the truth is this, that another bout of drinking will in all probability kill you; and any recourse to stimulus in your present condition may do so.”

      “I’ll send for Fillgrave—”

      “Well, send for Fillgrave, only do it at once. Believe me at any rate in this, that whatever you do, you should do at once. Oblige me in this; let Lady Scatcherd take away that brandy bottle till Dr Fillgrave comes.”

      “I’m d–––– if I do. Do you think I can’t have a bottle of brandy in my room without swigging?”

      “I think you’ll be less likely to swig it if you can’t get at it.”

      Sir Roger made another angry turn in his bed as well as his half-paralysed limbs would let him; and then, after a few moments’ peace, renewed his threats with increased violence.

      “Yes; I’ll have Fillgrave over here. If a man be ill, really ill, he should have the best advice he can get. I’ll have Fillgrave, and I’ll have that other fellow from Silverbridge to meet him. What’s his name?—Century.”

      The doctor turned his head away; for though the occasion was serious, he could not help smiling at the malicious vengeance with which his friend proposed to gratify himself.

      “I will; and Rerechild too. What’s the expense? I suppose five or six pound apiece will do it; eh, Thorne?”

      “Oh, yes; that will be liberal I should say. But, Sir Roger, will you allow me to suggest what you ought to do? I don’t know how far you may be joking—”

      “Joking!” shouted the baronet; “you tell a man he’s dying and joking in the same breath. You’ll find I’m not joking.”

      “Well I dare say not. But if you have not full confidence in me—”

      “I have no confidence in you at all.”

      “Then why not send to London? Expense is no object to you.”

      “It is an object; a great object.”

      “Nonsense! Send to London for Sir Omicron Pie: send for some man whom you will really trust when you see him.

      “There’s not one of the lot I’d trust as soon as Fillgrave. I’ve known Fillgrave all my life, and I trust him. I’ll send for Fillgrave and put my case in his hands. If any one can do anything for me, Fillgrave is the man.”

      “Then in God’s name send for Fillgrave,” said the doctor. “And now, goodbye, Scatcherd; and as you do send for him, give him a fair chance. Do not destroy yourself by more brandy before he comes.”

      “That’s my affair, and his; not yours,” said the patient.

      “So be it; give me your hand, at any rate, before I go. I wish you well through it, and when you are well, I’ll come and see you.”

      “Goodbye—goodbye; and look here, Thorne, you’ll be talking to Lady Scatcherd downstairs I know; now, no nonsense. You understand me, eh? no nonsense, you know.”

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