Therewith the Captain commenced, in a tone of voice like a schoolboy reciting the catalogue of the ships in Homer. He had been evidently conning the symptoms, and learning them by heart. Nor was there a single nook or corner in his anatomical organisation, so far as the Captain was acquainted with that structure, but what some symptom or other was dragged therefrom, and exposed to day. The Squire listened with horror to the morbific inventory—muttering at each dread interval, “Bless me! Lord bless me! What, more still! Death would be a very happy release!” Meanwhile the Doctor endured the recital with exemplary patience, noting down in the leaves of his pocket-book what appeared to him the salient points in this fortress of disease to which he had laid siege, and then, drawing forth a minute paper, said—
“Capital—nothing can be better. This must be dissolved in eight table-spoonfuls of water; one spoonful every two hours.”
“Table-spoonful?”
“Table-spoonful.”
“‘Nothing can be better,’ did you say, sir?” repeated the Squire, who, in his astonishment at that assertion applied to the Captain’s description of his sufferings, had hitherto hung fire—“‘nothing can be better?’”
“For the diagnosis, sir!” replied Dr Morgan.
“For the dogs’ noses, very possibly,” quoth the Squire; “but for the inside of Cousin Higginbotham, I should think nothing could be worse.”
“You are mistaken, sir,” replied Dr Morgan. “It is not the Captain who speaks here—it is his liver. Liver, sir, though a noble, is an imaginative organ, and indulges in the most extraordinary fictions. Seat of poetry, and love, and jealousy—the liver. Never believe what it says. You have no idea what a liar it is! But—ahem—ahem. Cott—I think I’ve seen you before, sir. Surely your name’s Hazeldean?”
“William Hazeldean, at your service, Doctor. But where have you seen me?”
“On the hustings at Lansmere. You were speaking on behalf of your distinguished brother, Mr Egerton.”