"Nothing in the knuckles—old acquaintance, you know, when you meet, sometimes a squeeze by the hand, eh? Ha, ha, ha!"
"No, nothing in the hand," said the Baronet, a little testily.
"Nor any wandering sensations here, you know, and there, hey?" said the little fellow, sitting down briskly by his patient.
"No; curse it."
"Troublesome to talk, hey?" asked Pratt, observing that he seemed faint, and talked low and with effort.
"No—yes—that is, tired."
"I see, no pain; all nicely fixed in the toe; that could not be better, and what do you refer it to? By Jove, it's eighteen, nineteen months since your last! When you came down to Dartbroke, for the Easter, you know, and wrote to me for the thing with the ether, hey? You've been at that d—d bin, I'm afraid, the forbidden fruit, hey? Egad, sir, I call it fluid gout, and the crust nothing but chalk-stone."
"No—I haven't," croaked the Baronet savagely.
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the Doctor, drumming on his fat knee with his stethoscope. "Won't admit—won't allow, hey?" As he spoke he was attempting to take him by the wrist.
"Pulse? How are we there, eh?"