“Well, what is it Maxley! Rheumatism again?”
“No, that it ain't,” bellowed Maxley defiantly.
“What then? Come, look sharp.”
“Well, then, doctor, I'll tell you. I'm sore troubled—with—a—mouse.”
This malady, announced in the tone of a proclamation, and coming after so much solemn preparation, amused the party considerably, although parturient mountains had ere then produced muscipular abortions.
“A mouse!” inquired Sampson disdainfully. “Where? Up your sleeve? Don't come to me: go t' a sawbones and have your arm cut off. I've seen 'em mutilate a pashint for as little.”
Maxley said it was not up his sleeve, worse luck.
On this Alfred hazarded a conjecture. “Might it not have gone down his throat? Took his potato-trap for the pantry-door. Ha! ha!”
“Ay, I hear ye, young man, a-laughing at your own sport,” said Maxley, winking his eye; “but 'tain't the biggest mouth as catches the most. You sits yander fit to bust; but (with a roar like a lion) ye never offers me none on't, neither sup nor bit.”
At this sudden turn of Mr. Maxley's wit, light and playful as a tap of the old English quarter-staff, they were a little staggered; all but Edward, who laughed and supplied him zealously with sandwiches.