"I never—a drop in my life—nothing but bread-and-water this fortnight."
And it was true. I had been paying for my own food, and had stinted myself to such an extent, that between starvation, want of sleep, and over-exertion, I was worn to a shadow, and the last drop had filled the cup; the evening's scene and its consequences had been too much for me, and in the middle of an attempt to explain matters to the policeman, I dropped on the pavement, bruising my face heavily.
He picked me up, put me under one arm and my bundle under the other, and was proceeding on his march, when three men came rollicking up.
"Hullo, Poleax—Costello—What's that? Work for us? A demp unpleasant body?"
"Oh, Mr. Bromley, sir! Hope you're well, sir! Werry rum go this here, sir! I finds this cove in the streets. He says his mother turned him out o' doors. He seems very fair spoken, and very bad in he's head, and very bad in he's chest, and very bad in he's legs, he does. And I can't come to no conclusions respecting my conduct in this here case, nohow!"
"Memorialize the Health of Towns Commission," suggested one.
"Bleed him in the great toe," said the second.
"Put a blister on the back of his left eye-ball," said a third.
"Case of male asterisks," observed the first. "Rj. Aquæ pumpis puræ quantum suff. Applicatur exterò pro re natâ. J. Bromley, M.D., and don't he wish he may get through!"—
"Tip us your daddle, my boy," said the second speaker. "I'll tell you what,
Bromley, this fellow's very bad. He's got no more pulse than the
Pimlico sewer. Run in into the next pot'us. Here—you lay hold of him,
Bromley—that last round with the cabman nearly put my humerus out."