Ned Hooper, who, like many good-humoured men, was easily roused when in a state of intoxication, fired at the tone of Gorman’s voice, and looked at him as sternly as he could, while he replied:
“What have I got to do with yer wants an’ yer co’pses—eh? You don’t sh’pose I keep a stock of ’em on hand ready-made, do you—eh?” Then relapsing into a placid frame, he smiled, and added, “But fire away, ol’ feller, I’m yer man for conv’sashin, specially w’en it’s in the comic line.”
“That’s right,” said Gorman, clapping Ned on the shoulder and endeavouring to conciliate him; “now, then, the question is, how am I to get ’un?”
“Ah, thash the question, if Shakspr’s to be b’lieved.”
“Well, but couldn’t you think?” said Gorman.
“Think!” exclaimed the other, “what am I paid a salary for? What are my brains doin’ night an day—eh? Of course I can think; thash’s my pr’feshion, is thinking.”
Gorman cast a scornful look at his friend, but he deemed it prudent to admit the truth of what he said, and suggested that he might perhaps remember a certain medical student with whom he had once held pleasant converse in his (Gorman’s) house of entertainment.
“R’member him, of course,” hiccuped Ned.
“Well, then, he could get us a corpse, you know—couldn’t he?”
Ned looked uncommonly knowing at this point, and admitted that he rather thought he could—a dozen of them, if necessary.