“Eh? Chair? Thanks,” said the visitor, taking it by the back, swinging it round, and throwing one leg across as if it were a saddle, crossing his arms and resting his chin there—the while he stared rather enviously at the man before him. “Not much the matter, and you mustn’t make me so that I can’t get on. Got a chap staying with me, and we’re going after the pheasants. I say, let me send you a brace.”
“You are very good,” said the Doctor, smiling rather contemptuously, “but as I understand it they are not yet shot?”
“Eh? Oh, no; but no fear of that. I can lick our keeper; pretty sure with a gun. Want to see my tongue and feel my pulse?”
“Well, no,” said the Doctor, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “I can pretty well tell.”
“How?”
“By your looks.”
“Eh? Don’t look bad, do I?”
“Rather.”
“Something nasty coming on?” said the young man nervously.
“Yes; bad bilious attack, if you are not careful. You have been drinking too much beer and smoking too many strong cigars.”