“Yes,” said North slowly, as he poured out some more brandy and tossed it off. “The poor fellow used to drink.”
“Hi—hi—hi!” chuckled Moredock. “Yes; they say he used to drink, doctor. Job’s done, eh?”
He stared hard at the flask, and in so peculiar a manner that North poured out some more.
“Here, have another drop, old chap,” he cried; “it’ll warm you up.”
“Thankye, doctor, thankye. Hah! yes; it’s good stuff. Does you good too. Makes you cheery like, and free. Why, doctor, I didn’t know you could be so hearty; you keep a man like me a long ways off in general. What’s the matter—not well?”
“Eh?” said North, speaking strangely. “I’m not well, Moredock. I’ll get out of this stifling place.”
“Stifling? Nay, it’s not stifling; you only say so because you’re done. Here, let me carry the tool bag, as you may say.”
The bag was heavy, for packed within it was the lamp as well as the doctor’s bottles, and such instruments as he had not put in his pocket.
“Looks precious queer,” muttered the old man, going to and unfastening the door.
“Ready, sir?”