“Ah, well, I won’t worry you, old fellow; and I must go now.”
“Nay, don’t go yet, doctor,” cried the old man querulously. “You haven’t sounded me, nor feeled me, nor nothing.”
“Haven’t I given you some comforting medicine?”
“Yes, doctor; bit o’ ’bacco does me good; but do feel my pulse and look at my tongue.”
“Ah, well, let’s look,” said the doctor, and he patiently examined according to rote. “It’s Anno Domini, Moredock—Anno Domini.”
“Is it, now, doctor? Ah, you always did understand my complaint. If it hadn’t been for you, doctor—”
“We should have had a new sexton at Duke’s Hampton before now, eh?”
“Yes, doctor,” said the old man, with a shudder.
“Well, without boasting, old chap, I think I did pull you through that last illness.”
“Yes, doctor, you did, you did; and don’t go away again. You were away seven days—seven mortal days of misery to me.”