“Sure it's the compound infusion, made with orangepeel and cardamom seeds. There is n't one of them did n't cost two and ninepence. He 'll be eight weeks in bed come Tuesday next.”
“Well, well! If he lived till the next assizes, it would be telling me four hundred pounds; not to speak of the costs of two ejectments I have in hand against Mullins and his father-in-law.”
“It's a wonder,” said the doctor, after a pause, “that Tom didn't come by the coach. It's no matter now, at any rate; for since the eldest son's away, there's no one here to interfere with us.”
“It was a masterly stroke of yours, doctor, to tell the old man the weather was too severe to bring George over from Eton. As sure as he came he'd make up matters with Tom; and the end of it would be, I 'd lose the agency, and you would n't have those pleasant little bills for the tenantry,—eh. Fin?”
“Whisht! he's waking now. Well, sir; well, Mr. Burke, how do you feel now? He 's off again!”
“The funeral ought to be on a Sunday,” said Basset, in a whisper; “there 'll be no getting the people to come any other day. He 's saying something, I think.”
“Fin,” said my father, in a faint, hoarse voice,—“Fin, give me a drink. It 's not warm!”
“Yes, sir; I had it on the fire.”
“Well, then, it 's myself that 's growing cold. How 's the pulse now. Fin? Is the Dublin doctor come yet?”
“No, sir; we 're expecting him every minute. But sure, you know, we 're doing everything.”