"Hollo! Is that Tomlinson?" answered the voice from within.
"Yes, sir, please."
"See, Tomlinson, I say, it's very ridiculous; but I'm hanged if I can stir, that confounded gout's got hold of my foot again. You'll have to force the door. Send some one down to the town for Doctor Pratt—d'ye see?—and get me some handkerchiefs, and don't be all day."
The faithful Tomlinson listening, with a snowy shirt and a pair of socks on his arm and the tips of his fingers fiddling with the door-handle, listening at the other side of the panel, with forehead inclined forward and mouth open, looked, I am sorry to say, a good deal amused, although he answered in a concerned tone; and departed to execute his orders.
"Guv'nor took in toe again," he murmured, with a solemn leer, as he paused before the butler's broad Marseilles waistcoat.
"As how?" inquired he.
"The gout; can't stir a peg, and he's locked hisself in, as usual, over night."
"Lawk!" exclaimed the butler, and I dare say both would have liked to laugh, but neither cared to compromise himself.
"Chisel and mallet, Mr. Story, we shall want, if you please, and some one to go at once for the doctor to the town."
"I know—yes—hinstantly," ejaculated the butler.