"I've heard of it; let's see:" and Mr. Trebooze—for it was he—put his hand across the counter unceremoniously, and clawed up some.
"Didn't know you sold tobacco here. Prime stuff. Too strong for me, though, this morning, somehow."
"Ah? A little too much claret last night? I thought so. We'll set that right in five minutes."
"Eh? How did you guess that?" asked Trebooze, with a larger oath than usual.
"Oh, we doctors are men of the world," said Tom, in a cheerful and insinuating tone, as he mixed his man a draught.
"You doctors? You're a cock of a different hackle from old Heale, then."
"I trust so," said Tom.
"By George, I feel better already. I say, you're a trump; I suppose you're Heale's new partner, the man who was washed ashore!"
Tom nodded assent;
"I say—How do you sell that honey-dew?"