“O, yes, sir; I don’t agree with my wife. She’s for Lord Trentham.”
The doctor changed his prognosis.
“Wait. Let me see; nurse, don’t remove his stockings;” feeling the man’s pulse. “Humph! A good firm stroke. Better than I expected. You took the pills? Yes; they made you sick? Nurse, did he sleep well?”
“Charmingly, sir;” with a knowing twinkle of the eye.
“Well, Joe, if you are bent on going to the polls, it will set your mind better at ease to go. It’s a fine sunny afternoon. The ride will do you good. So, bedad, I’ll take you along in my chariot.”
Weatherly was delighted with the doctor’s urbanity, resumed his coat, went to the election, and voted for Sir George, rode back in the chariot, and died two hours afterwards, amidst the reproaches of his amiable spouse.
“Called away from a dinner table, where he was eating, laughing, and drinking deeply, Dr. B. was found dead in the coach from apoplexy, on the arrival at the place of destination.”
