There was a jug of cold water, a “tumbler,” and a large black bottle on the table, to which the doctor waved a gracious introduction.
“Ole Tom, ole Tom, an’ w—wawr hizh dring the chryshle brook!”
The doctor was given to quotation in his cups, and this was his paraphrase of “The Hermit.”
“Thanks, no,” said William; “I have had my glass long ago. I’m going back to Cambridge, Sir; I’m going to make a push in life. I’ve been too long a burden on my aunt.”
“Admiral wom’le sh’r! Wurle—worry—no wurrier—ladle!” (worthier lady! I believe he meant) exclaimed the doctor, with growing enthusiasm.
Contented with these evidences of mental vigour, William, who must have spoken to the roadside trees, rather than refrain himself, proceeded to tell his woeful story—to which Doctor Drake listened, clinging rather to the chimney-piece with his right hand, and in his left sustaining a large glass of his favourite “Old Tom” and water, a little of which occasionally poured upon the hearthrug.
“And, Doctor Drake, you won’t mention what I’m going to say?”
The doctor intended to say, “silent as the sepulchre,” but broke down, and merely nodded, funereally pointing his finger perpendicularly toward the hearthstone; and having let go his hold on the chimney, he made an involuntary wheel backward, and sat down quite unexpectedly, and rather violently, in an elbow-chair.
“You promise, really and truly, Sir?” pressed William.
“Reel-reel-reelan’-tooral,” repeated the doctor as nearly as he could.