“She sent me here because it happens to be a year of famine—what is commonly called a hard season—and she stitched the little blasted doctor to me that I might die legitimately under medical advice. Isn't that very like murder—isn't it?”
“Ah, my dear friend, thank God that you are not a parson, having a handsome wife and a handsome curate, with the gout to support you and keep you comfortable. You would then feel that there are other twinges worse than those of the gout.”
“Ay, but is there anything wrong about your head?”
“Heaven knows. About a twelvemonth ago I felt as if there were two sprouts budding out of my forehead, but on putting up my hand I could feel nothing. It was as smooth as ever. It must have been hypochondriasis. The curate, though, is a handsome dog, and, like yourself, it was my wife sent me here.”
“Is your wife a cripple?”
“Faith, anything but that.”
“How is her tongue? No paralysis in that quarter?”
“On the contrary, she is calm and soft-spoken, and perfectly sweet and angelic in her manner.”
“But was it in consequence of the famine she sent you here? Toast and water!—toast and water! O Lord!”
This dialogue took place in Manifold's lodgings, where Topertoe, aided by a crutch and his servant, was in the habit of visiting him. To Manifold, indeed, this was a penal settlement, in consequence of the reasons which we have already stated.