Pendell chuckles to himself. "Quite a character," I hear him murmuring. Then, after a short laugh, he exclaims almost fondly, "Old Ruddock! ha! ha! Rum old fellow."
And so we go in. And this has been the long-expected "Nicht wi' Ruddock." He hasn't said twenty words. Certainly not one worth hearing. Yet Pendell seems perfectly satisfied with him, and years hence, I dare say, this occasion will be recounted as a night when Old Ruddock was at his best. After this, how about Sheridan?
Next morning.—My friend, Miss Straithmere, is coming at two o'clock. I find that I can leave, viâ Launceston, at eleven. I am not well. I can't help it. I begin to consider, is it my nature to be ill? No, I must go up to town, and consult my Doctor.
Adieu, Penwiffle. If I stopped, I feel that in the wilds of Cornwall, out at Tintagel or at Land's End, or in a slate quarry, or down a mine, I should.... Well, I don't know but I should have to answer the question, "Why?"
My present idea is to live in London, about two miles from the British Museum. Then I can walk there every morning, and work in the library at my Analytical History of Motion.
If the Doctor agrees with me, and if this plan agrees with me, I shall continue it; if not, I must take to boxing, gymnastics, or other violent exercise.
The Doctor does agree with me. He advises me to try my own prescription. In a week's time to call on him again, and go on calling on him regularly every Monday.
I have taken lodgings three doors from my Doctor's house. I shall make no further notes, unless, at some future time, I commence a history of a British Constitution (my own). And so, for the present, I conclude, with a quotation from Shakspeare, who was, among other things, evidently a valetudinarian, and finish these papers by saying,