Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer sat together in the little surgery behind the shop, discussing minced veal and future prospects, when the discourse, not unnaturally, turned upon the practice acquired by Bob the aforesaid, and his present chances of deriving a competent independence from the honourable profession to which he had devoted himself.
‘Which, I think,’ observed Mr. Bob Sawyer, pursuing the thread of the subject—‘which, I think, Ben, are rather dubious.’
‘What’s rather dubious?’ inquired Mr. Ben Allen, at the same time sharpening his intellect with a draught of beer. ‘What’s dubious?’
‘Why, the chances,’ responded Mr. Bob Sawyer.
‘I forgot,’ said Mr. Ben Allen. ‘The beer has reminded me that I forgot, Bob—yes; they are dubious.’
‘It’s wonderful how the poor people patronise me,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer reflectively. ‘They knock me up, at all hours of the night; they take medicine to an extent which I should have conceived impossible; they put on blisters and leeches with a perseverance worthy of a better cause; they make additions to their families, in a manner which is quite awful. Six of those last-named little promissory notes, all due on the same day, Ben, and all intrusted to me!’
‘It’s very gratifying, isn’t it?’ said Mr. Ben Allen, holding his plate for some more minced veal.
‘Oh, very,’ replied Bob; ‘only not quite so much so as the confidence of patients with a shilling or two to spare would be. This business was capitally described in the advertisement, Ben. It is a practice, a very extensive practice—and that’s all.’
‘Bob,’ said Mr. Ben Allen, laying down his knife and fork, and fixing his eyes on the visage of his friend, ‘Bob, I’ll tell you what it is.’
‘What is it?’ inquired Mr. Bob Sawyer.