“No, no, doctor; let the poor man rest quietly, and here is a trifle for your trouble.” So saying, she slipped a weighty purse into my hand.
“This alters the case,” said I, “materially—your late husband shall never be disturbed by me.”
The widow withdrew with a profusion of acknowledgments; and scarcely had she gone, when a young fellow, who I learned had lately come into possession of a handsome property by the death of an uncle, came to request me not to meddle with the deceased, who he assured me was a shocking old curmudgeon, who never spent his money like a gentleman. A douceur from the young chap secured the repose of his uncle.
My next visitor was a weazel-faced man, who had been plagued for twenty years by a shrew of a wife, who popped off one day from an overdose of whiskey. He came to beseech me not to bring back his plague to the world; and, pitying the poor man’s case, I gave him my promise readily, without accepting a fee.
By this time daylight had begun to appear, and creeping quietly out of the churchyard, I returned to my lodgings. Ned was waiting up for my return.
“What luck?” said he, as I entered the room.
I showed him the fees I had received during the night.
“I told you,” said he, “that we should have plenty of rhino to-day. Never despair, man, there are more ways out of the wood than one: and recollect, that ready wit is as good as ready money.”