"What, sir, please?"
"Jesus College."
"Don't know, I'm sure, sir."
"Is he old?"
"Yes, sir, past seventy."
"Ha—well I don't care a farthing about him," said Mr. Dingwell.
"Will you, please, have in the apothecary, sir? I'll fetch him directly, if you wish."
"No—no apothecary, no clergyman; I don't believe in the Apostles' Creed, ma'am, and I do believe in the jokes about apothecaries. If I'm to go, I'll go quietly, if you please."
Honest Sally Rumble was heavy at heart to see this old man, who certainly did look ghastly enough to suggest ideas of the undertaker and the sexton, in so unsatisfactory a plight as to his immortal part. Was he a Jew?—there wasn't a hair on his chin—or a Roman Catholic?—or a member of any one of those multitudinous forms of faith which she remembered in a stout volume, adorned with woodcuts, and entitled "A Dictionary of all Religions," in a back parlour of her grand-uncle, the tallow-chandler?
"Give me a glass of cold water, ma'am," said the subject of her solicitude.