“I say, I ha’ got a dead mun in the wagon.”
“A dead man?” cried Job.
“Ay; picked him up i’ the muddle o’ the road. The bay cob wor standin’ loike a lamb beside um. I shall take um to the ‘Barley Mow’ yonder.” (An inn.)
“BLEED HIM.”
“But stop, for God’s sake,” exclaimed Job, jumping upon the wagon. Instantly he recognized the features of Sir Scipio. Struck by apoplexy, he had fallen from his horse. Instantly Job tore off Sir Scipio’s coat, rolled up his sleeves, bound the arm, and produced a razor.
“Ha! what wilt ye do, mun?” cried the wagoner, seeing the razor.
“Bleed him,” replied Job, with exquisite composure; “I fear his heart is stopped.”
“Loikely. I do think it be Grinders, the lawyer. Cut um deep, deep;” and the fellow opened wide his eyes to see if the lawyer had red blood or Japan ink in his veins. “Cut um deep; though if it be old Grinders, by what I hear, it be a shame to disturb him, ony way,” said the wagoner.
“Grinders! Pshaw! It’s Sir Scipio Manikin.”