"Beer or whisky, doctor?" I asked.
"Whisky for choice," he said. "Irish."
Whisky it was, and Irish; I spilled mine on the floor, and filled my glass with water. Dr. Cooper dealt with his as he dealt with the beer; it was evidently not his habit to take two bites at a cherry.
"Another?" I suggested.
"You're a gentleman," he said.
When he had disposed of this second portion in a similar manner to the first, I opened the ball, and inwardly took credit to myself for rather artful tactics.
"I came down this way, doctor," I said, "especially to see you."
He seized my wrist with one hand, and put the other into his waistcoat pocket, removing it immediately, however, with a husky cough and an angry shake of his head.
"No, no, doctor," I said, laughing, as he fumbled at my pulse, "I do not need professional advice to-day. The fact is, I have come to pay an old debt."
He retained my hand, as though to prevent my escaping him.