He replied very offhand, as was his manner at such times:
“Blicke vows that Chartersea and Lewis have qualified for the College of Surgeons,” says he. “They are both born anatomists. Your job under the arm was the worst bungle of the two, egad, for Lewis put his sword, pat as you please, between two of my organs (cursed if I know their names), and not so much as scratched one.”
“Look you, Jack,” said I, “I am not deceived. You have no right to be here, and you know it.”
“Tush!” answered his Lordship; “I am as well as you.” And he took snuff to prove the assertion. “Why the devil was you not in Brook Street yesterday to tell me that your uncle had swindled you? I thought I was your friend,” says he, “and I learn of your misfortune through others.”
“It is because you are my friend, and my best friend, that I would not worry you when you lay next door to death on my account,” I said, with emotion.
And just then Banks announced Mr. Dix.
“Let him wait,” said I, greatly disturbed.
“Show him up!” said my Lord, peremptorily.
“No, no!” I protested; “he can wait. We shall have no business now.”
But Banks was gone. And I found out, long afterward, that it was put up between them.