"But," said Bindle, "couldn't yer put me in somethin' wot sits on an 'orse, or 'angs on be'ind? I want to go."
"It's no good; I cannot pass you."
"Couldn't yer make me even a 'ighlander? Me legs ain't too thin for that, are they?"
"It's no good!"
"Are they catchin'?" enquired Bindle, with some eagerness in his voice.
"Are what catching?"
"Various veins."
"No."
"Just my luck," grumbled Bindle, "a-gettin' somethink wot I can't 'and on."
The doctor laughed.