"I think you are very rude," protested the bearded man.
"Pulling out horses' teeth isn't a bad-paying business, either," continued Mr Deadwood. "You use forceps about as large as tongs. They would just suit your delicate touch."
"Everybody is liable to make mistakes," pleaded the bearded one.
"But when a man practising medicine makes the mistakes you do," returned Mr Deadwood, "he had better set up at once as secret agent--on a liberal salary--to a necropolis company."
But the bearded man was only half-listening to his visitor.
"I can't understand it," he muttered; "he was frightfully injured."
"But he's frightfully tough," rejoined Deadwood: "footer, rowing, cricket--all good for the spine. He'll get well! Ahem! Sorry to have to suggest it myself, but have you got any tea to give away to a thirsty apothecary?"
"Certainly. Sit down and have a cup."
"I will," said Mr Deadwood. "As I have previously remarked, you're not a bad sort. After all, you can't help being an ass. You condemned Jim to death, and Trefusis has reprieved him. Two lumps and plenty of milk, and the toast is--JIM!"
CHAPTER XXXII.