I ran to summon my master.
“How are you, old fellow?” demanded Mr. Timmis; “tip us your fin.”
“Queer!” replied Mr. Crobble,—tapping his breast gently with his fat fist, and puffing out his cheeks—to indicate that his lungs were disordered.
“What, bellows to mend?” cried my accomplished patron—“D___ me, never say die!”
“Just come from Doctor Sprawles: says I must take exercise; no malt liquor—nothing at breakfast—no lunch—no supper.”
“Why, you'll be a skeleton—a transfer from the consolidated to the reduced in no time,” exclaimed Mr. Timmis; and his friend joined in the laugh.
“I was a-thinking, Timmis—don't you belong to a cricketclub?”
“To be sure.”
—“Of joining you.”
“That's the ticket,” cried Timmis—“consider yourself elected; I can carry any thing there. I'm quite the cock of the walk, and no mistake. Next Thursday's a field-day—I'll introduce you. Lord! you'll soon be right as a trivet.”