Never backward in the cause of good-nature, poor Dalton sallied forth at night, and notwithstanding the cutting blasts of a north wind, and the sharp driftings of the half-frozen snow, held on his way to the “Russie,” where, in a very humble chamber for so distinguished a guest, lay Mr. Foglass in the mock agonies of gout.
“How devilish kind of you, how very considerate!” said Foglass, as he gave one finger of his hand to shake. “So like poor Townsend this, Lord Tom, we used to call him. Not wet, though, I hope?”
“And if I was, it would n't be the first time. But how are you yourself, where is the pain?”
“You must speak louder; there 's a kind of damper on the voice in this room.”
“Where 's the pain?” screamed Dalton.
“There there no need to roar,” whispered the other. “The pain is here over the stomach, round the ribs, the back everywhere.”
“Ah, I know it well,” said Dalton, with a wry contortion of the face. “It's the devil entirely when it gets under the short ribs! It begins like a rat nibbling you, as it might be, biting away little bits, with now and then a big slice that makes you sing out; and then the teeth begin to get hot, and he bites quicker, and tears you besides, sure I know it, this many a year.”
To this description, of which Foglass heard nothing, he bowed blandly, and made a sign to Dalton to be seated near him.
“You'd like a little wine-and-water, I'm sure,” said he, with the air of a man who rarely figured as a host, and liked it more rarely still.
“Spirits-and-water—boiling water with sugar and a squeeze of lemon, is what I 'll take; and see now, you 'd not be worse of the same yourself. I 've an elegant receipt for the gout, but whether it 's sulphur or saltpetre 's in it, I don't well remember; but I know you mix it with treacle, ash-bark, and earthworms, the yolk of four eggs, and a little rosemary. But as you might n't like the taste of it at first, we 'll just begin with a jug of punch.”