Weak as he was, Colonel Clifford's dull eye flashed, and he half raised himself on his elbow. "What a question to put to a soldier!" said he. "Why, let us fight, to be sure. I thought it was twenty to one—five to three? I have often won the rubber with five to three against me."
"Ah!" said Dr. Garner, "these are the patients that give the doctor a chance." Then he turned to Baker. "Have you any good champagne in the house—not sweet, and not too dry, and full of fire?"
"Irroy's Carte d'Or," suggested the patient, entering into the business with a certain feeble alacrity that showed his gout had not always been unconnected with imprudence in diet.
Baker was sent for the champagne. It was brought and opened, and the patient drank some of it fizzing. When he had drank what he could, his eyes twinkled, and he said,
"That's a hair of a dog that has often bitten me."
The wine soon got into his weakened head, and he dropped asleep.
"Another draught when he wakes," said the doctor, "but from a fresh bottle."
"We'll finish this one to your health in the servants' hall," said honest
John Baker.
Dr. Garner staid there all night, keeping up the patient's strength with eggs and brandy, and everything, in short, except medicine; and he also administered champagne, but at much longer intervals.
At one o'clock next day the patient gave a dismal groan; Walter and the others started up in alarm.