“Rubbish!”
“Ah! you say that to hide your bad work, doctor, and because you know you arn’t done your duty by me.”
“Why, you ungrateful old humbug! I’ve done no end for you. Haven’t I gone on oiling your confounded old hinges for years past, to keep you from dropping off, rusted out?”
“Ah! I don’t say anything again that, doctor; but you’ve always thought me a poor man, and you’ve treated me like a poor man—exactly like. If you’d thought me well off, and you could send me in a big bill, you’d have had me in such condition that I shouldn’t have seen my fetch last night.”
“Seen your grandmother, man.”
“Ay, you may laugh, doctor; but what have you told me over and over again? ‘Moredock,’ says you, ‘a healthy man’s no business to die till he’s quite worn out.’ And ‘What age will that be, doctor?’ says I. ‘Oh! at any age,’ says you; and here am I, a hale, hearty man, only a little more’n ninety, and last night I see my fetch.”
“But you’re not a hale, hearty man, Moredock.”
“Tchah! Whatcher talking about? Why, I’d ’bout made up my mind to be married again.”
“You? Married? Why, even I don’t think of such a thing.”
“You? No,” said the old man, contemptuously. “You’re not half the man I’ve been. My son’s gal—Dally Watlock’s ’fended me, and if she don’t mind she’ll lose my bit o’ money.”