“R. H.”
The good-hearted Sampson sent a cordial reply, and came to dinner at Musgrove Cottage.
Now all Hardie wanted of him in reality was to know about David; so when Jane had retired and the decanter circulated, he began to pump him by his vanity. “I understand,” said he, “you have wrought one of your surprising cures in this neighbourhood. Albion Villa!”
Sampson shook his head sorrowfully: Mr. Hardie's eyes sparkled. Alfred watched him keenly and bitterly.
“How can I work a great cure after these ass-ass-ins Short and Osmond? Look, see! the man had been wounded in the hid, and lost blood: thin stabbed in the shoulder, and lost more blood.”—Both the Hardies uttered an ejaculation of unfeigned surprise.—“So, instid of recruiting the buddy thus exhausted of the great liquid material of all repair, the profissional ass-ass-in came and exhausted him worse: stabbed him while he slept; stabbed him unconscious, stabbed him in a vein: and stole more blood from him. Wasn't that enough? No! the routine of profissional ass-ass-ination had but begun; nixt they stabbed him with cupping-needles, and so stole more of his life-blood. And they were goen from their stabs to their bites, goen to leech his temples, and so hand him over to the sixton.”
“But you came in and saved him,” cried Alfred.
“I saved his life,” said Sampson sorrowfully; “but life is not the only good thing a man may be robbed of by those who steal his life-blood, and so impoverish and water the contints of the vessels of the brain.”
“Doctor Sampson,” said Alfred, “what do you mean by these mysterious words? You alarm me.”
“What, don't you know? Haven't they told you?”
“No, I have not had the courage to enter the house since the bank——” he stopped in confusion.