"Dash it, Carter—oh, Lord! go gently, don't touch it there! What's the good of being alive? I remember the days when I could drink a whole bottle of port without turning a hair."
"I know—but you're not as young as you were then, Hancock."
"Oh, do say something original—say I'm getting old, and have done with it!"
"It's not your age so much as your diathesis," said the pitiless Carter. "It's unfortunate for you, but there you are. You might be worse, every man is born with a disease. Yours is gout—you might be worse. Suppose you had aneurism? Now, here's a prescription; get it made up at once. Thank goodness, you can stand colchicum."
"How long will it be before I'm all right?"
"A week, at least."
"Oh Lord!"
"There, you are grumbling. Remember, my dear fellow, that living is a business as well as lawyering. Take life easy, and forget the office for a few days."
"I wasn't thinking of the office—give me that writing-case over there; I must write a letter."