“You are wrong, doctor; I never drink no beer: it costs——”
“Your catlap, then. And above all, no grizzling! Go to church whenever you can without losing a farthing. It's medicinal; soothes the brain, and takes it off worldly cares. And have no words with your husband, or he'll outlive you; it's his only chance of getting the last word. Care killed a cat, a nanimal with eight lives more than a chatterbox. If you worry or excite your brain, little Maxley, you will cook your own goose—by a quick fire.”
“Dear heart, these be unked sayings. Won't ye give me nothing to make me better, sir?”
“No, I never tinker; I go to the root: you may buy a vile of chlorofm and take a puff if you feel premonory symps: but a quiet brain is your only real chance. Now slope, and send the male screw.”
“Anan?”
“Your husband.”
“That I will, sir. Your sarvant, doctor; your sarvant, ma'am; sarvant, all the company.”
Mrs. Dodd hoped the poor woman had nothing very serious the matter.
“Oh, it is a mortal disease,” replied Sampson, as cool as a cucumber. “She has got angina pictoris or brist-pang, a disorder that admirably eximplifies the pretinsions of midicine t' seeince.” And with this he dashed into monologue.
Maxley's tall gaunt form came slouching in, and traversed the floor, pounding it with heavy nailed boots. He seated himself gravely at Mrs. Dodd's invitation, took a handkerchief out of his hat, wiped his face, and surveyed the company, grand and calm. In James Maxley all was ponderous: his head was huge, his mouth, when it fairly opened, revealed a chasm, and thence issued a voice naturally stentorian by its volume and native vigour; but, when the owner of this incarnate bassoon had a mind to say something sagacious, he sank at once from his habitual roar to a sound scarce above a whisper; a contrast mighty comical to hear, though on paper nil.