“You take my advice, Moredock, and don’t marry.”
“Shan’t leave you nothing, if I don’t marry, doctor,” said the old man, with a cunning leer; “and you needn’t send in no bills because you’ve found out I’ve got a bit saved up.”
“Why, you wicked old ruffian, I suppose you’ve scraped together a few pounds by trafficking in old bones, and of what you’ve robbed the church.”
“Never you mind, doctor, how I got it, or how much it is.”
“I don’t; but just you be wise, sir. You’re not going to marry again, and you’re going to leave your money to your grandchild.”
“Eh? What—what? Do you want to marry her?”
“No, I don’t, Moredock; but if you don’t behave yourself, hang me if I come and doctor you any more. You may send over to King’s Hampton for Dr Wellby, or die if you like: I won’t try and save you.”
“No, no, no; don’t talk like that, doctor—don’t talk like that,” whimpered the old man; “just now, too, when I’m so shook.”
“Then don’t you talk about disinheriting your poor grandchild. Come, hold up, Moredock! I didn’t mean it. There’s nothing much the matter.”
“Ah! but there is, doctor. I saw my fetch last night.”