“Pythagorean—what's that? I thought you said he was a cook. Does he understand venison properly? O, good Lord! what a life I'm leading! Toast and water—toast and water. But it's all the result of this famine. And yet they know I'm wealthy. I say, what's this your name is?”
“Never mind that—an old acquaintance. Hell and torments! what's this? O!”
“The weather's pleasant, Topertoe. I say, Topertoe, what's this your name is?”
“O! O!” exclaimed Topertoe, who felt one or two desperate twinges of his prevailing malady; “curse me, Manifold, but I think I would exchange with you; your complaint is an easy one compared to mine. You are a mere block, and will pop off without pain, instead of being racked like a soul in perdition as I am.”
“Your soul in perdition—well I suppose it will. But don't groan and scream so—you I are not there yet; when you are you will have plenty of time to groan and scream. As for myself, I will be likely to sleep it out there. I think, by the way, I had the pleasure of knowing you before; your face is familiar to me. What's this you call the man that attends sick people?”
“A doctor. O! O! Hell and torments! what is this? Yes, a doctor. O! O!”
“Ay, a doctor. Confound me, but I think my head's going around like a top. Yes, a—a—a—a doctor. Well, the doctor says that I and Parson Topertoe led a nice life of it—one a glutton and the other a drunkard. Do you know Topertoe? Because if you don't I do. He is a damned scoundrel, and squeezed his tithes out of the people with pincers of blood.”
“Manifold, your gluttony has brought you to a fine pass. Are you alive or not?”
“Eh? Curse all dry toast and water! But it's all the consequence of this year of famine. Pray, sir, what do you eat?”
“Beef, mutton, venison, fowl, ham, turbot, salmon, black sole, with all the proper and corresponding sauces and condiments.”