“I cannot help it, I may be of use. Doctor Lawrence,” she said aloud, piteously, as with a faint hope that she might be deceived, and that she was unjust in attributing the trouble to drink, “are such fits likely to return?”
“Eh? Hum! Well, really, my dear, it all depends upon the patient himself. Ah! here’s Mr Saul.”
“Eh? Saul?” yelled the patient. “Where’s old Saul? More whiskey. Ah, would you!”
He burst out into such a torrent of tall swearing as is said to be peculiar to the mule-drivers of the Far West, and Gertrude shuddered as the hot words came pouring forth.
“That’s right, Mr Saul. Now, Mrs Denton, a wine-glass, and a little cold water, please.”
These were obtained, and as the chink of bottle against glass was heard, the patient shouted aloud, and strained to sit up and reach the glass held out to him, and whose contents he swallowed instantly.
“What’s that?” he shouted; “not whisk— That you, Saul boy. Come here—come—”
He stopped short, uttered a furious oath, and made a bound to set himself free, but sank back inert and lay staring in a ghastly manner at the ceiling.
The doctor laid his hand upon his patient’s heart, felt his pulse, and then bent down over him anxiously.
“Here,” he said quickly, “where is that prescription, Mr Saul?”