"Let me—I'll talk to him—how dare you—when I'm better—quiet"—and he laid down his head again.
"When you are, you cursed sink. Look at all we've lost by you."
He stood looking at Dingwell savagely.
"He'll die," exclaimed he, making an angry nod, almost a butt, with his head toward the patient, and he repeated his prediction with a furious oath.
"See, you'll send down to the apothecary's for that chloride of lime, and them vinegars and things—or—no; you must wait here, for Larkin will come; and don't you let him go, mind. Me and Mr. Goldshed will be here in no time. Tell him the doctor's coming; and us—and I'll send up them things from the apothecary, and you put them all about in plates on the floor and tables. Bad enough to lose our money, and cursed bad; but I won't take this—come out o' this room—if I can help."
And he entered the drawing-room, shutting Dingwell's door, and spitting on the floor, and then he opened the window.
"He'll die—do you think he'll die?" he exclaimed again.
"He's in the hands of God, sir," said Sally Rumble.
"He won't be long there—he'll die—I say he will—he will;" and the little Jew swore and stamped on the floor, and clapped his hat on his head, and ran down the stairs, in a paroxysm of business and fury.