The doctor gave the parson another dig, and winked at him to keep quiet.
“Sir,” said the parson, unable, however, to restrain himself, “confound me if ever I heard such infidel opinions expressed in my life. Damn your philosophy; it is cursed nonsense, and nothing else.”
“A vegetable diet,” proceeded Cooke, “is a guarantee for health and long life—O Lord!” he exclaimed, “this accursed rheumatism will be the death of me.”
“What is he saying?” asked Manifold.
“He is talking philosophy,” replied the doctor, with a comic grin, “and recommending a vegetable diet and pure water.”
“A devilish scoundrel,” said Manifold. “He's a rat, too. Doolittle's a rat; but I'll poison him; yes, I'll dose him with ratsbane, and then I can eat, drink, and swill away. Is the philosopher's wife a cripple?”
“He has no wife,” replied Doolittle.
“And what the devil, then, is he a philosopher for? What on earth challenges philosophy in a husband so much as a wife,—especially if she's a cripple and has the use of her tongue?”
“Not being a married man myself,” replied the doctor, “I can give you no information on the subject; or rather I could if I would; but it would not be for your comfort:—ask Manifold.”
“Ay; but he says there's something wrong about his head—sprouts pressing up, or something that way. Ask Mrs. Rosebud will she hob or nob with me. Mrs. Rosebud,” he proceeded, addressing the widow, “hob or nob?”