“Well, well, we must put that all right,” said Doctor Stubbs. “It won’t do for you to take nerves with you to the altar, to-morrow. It’s the bride’s privilege to have nerves. You must be rock.”
“I should like it, above all things,” said Hodmadod. “Ought to be rock at such a time, eh?”
“A piece of manly adamant,” responded Doctor Stubbs, and his eye twinkled. “Well, that can be done. That can be done,” repeated the Doctor slowly, the while he wrote with pencil upon a leaf of his pocket-book. “Here, Sir Arthur. This will brace you up like a drum,” and the Doctor, tearing the prescription from his book, handed it to the tremulous bridegroom.
Sir Arthur cast his eye upon the medicinal Latin; muttered bits of the written spells—“Morph: Acetat. Hyoscyami. Digitalis. Ætheris Sulphuric. Yes; I see”—and the patient smiled, much comforted. “I see; quite like a drum. Exactly.”
“There are two doses,” said Stubbs. “You will take one the last thing to-night; and the other when you wake in the morning. That will, no doubt, be early,” and Stubbs laughed.
“Oh yes,” cried Hodmadod, with joyous burst. “Oh, yes! Up with the first chanticleer. When I say the first chanticleer”—
“To be sure,” said Stubbs. “And now, my dear Sir Arthur—why what is the matter?”
“Nothing. When I say nothing, you can’t think how that steeple still goes up and down. I’m always sick at sea; but never felt so sick as now in all my life. Up and down!”
“Aye, aye; your nerves. Now, pray listen. You must keep yourself very quiet. Because to-morrow”—Stubbs was the smallest of a wag—“to-morrow you have to make a great moral demonstration.”
“Very moral. Marriage, you know. Nothing can be more moral. When I say”—