“What is it? One of my secrets, Moredock, just as you have yours. Trust me, and you shall have as much as is for your good.”
“Hah! that’s right, doctor; that’s right,” chuckled the old fellow horribly. “I mean to live a long time yet, and may as well do it comfortably. I’ll come round to your surgery to-night, and—hist!” he whispered; “is there anything I can bring?”
“No—no,” said the doctor hastily; “but, Moredock, I do want you to do something for me.”
“Eh? I do something for you, doctor? It isn’t money, is it?”
“Money, man? No; I’ll tell you what I want.”
“Hist! parson!” said the old man, giving him a nudge, as a familiar step was heard upon the gravel path of the churchyard; and, directly after, the tall figure of the curate darkened the door.
“Ah! North; you here? Having a look round?”
“Yes,” said the doctor; “and a chat with my old patient.”
“Ah!” said the curate, shaking his head at the sexton.
“Doctor’s going to let me have another bottle of the stuff as I told you ’bout, sir.”