Part 33 (1/2)
”Me quarrel with my man! We haven't never been disagreeable, not once, since we went to church a pair and came back a couple. I don't say but what we mayn't have had a word or two at odd times, as married folk will.”
”And the last time you had a word or two--y' infairnal quibbler--was it just before your last spasm, eh?”
”Well, it might; I am not gainsaying that: but you said quarrel, says you. 'Quarrel' it were your word; and I defy all Barkton, gentle and simple, to say as how me and my master----”
”Whisht! whisht! Now, jintlemen, ye see what the great coming sceince--the sceince of Healing--has to contind with. The dox are all fools, but one: and the pas.h.i.+nts are lyres, ivery man Jack. N' listen me; y' have got a disease that you can't eradicate; but you may muzzle it for years, and die of something quite different when your time's up.”
”Like enough, sir. If _you_ please, ma'am, Dr. Stephenson do blame my indigestion for it.”
”Dr. Stephenson's an a.s.s.”
”Dear heart, how cantankerous you be. To be sure Dr. Osmond he says no: it's muscular, says he.”
”Dr. Osmond's an ijjit. List me; You mustn't grizzle about money; you mustn't gobble, nor drink your beer too fast.”
”You are wrong, doctor; I never drink no beer: it costs----”
”Your catlap, then. And above all, no grizzling! Go to church whenever you can without losing a farthing. It's medicinal; soothes the brain, and takes it off worldly cares. And have no words with your husband, or he'll outlive you; it's his only chance of getting the last word. Care killed a cat, a nanimal with eight lives more than a chatterbox. If you worry or excite your brain, little Maxley, you will cook your own goose--by a quick fire.”
”Dear heart, these be unked sayings. Won't ye give me nothing to make me better, sir?”
”No, I never tinker; I go to the root: you may buy a vile of chlorofm and take a puff if you feel premonory symps: but a quiet brain is your only real chance. Now slope, and send the male screw.”
”Anan?”
”Your husband.”
”That I will, sir. Your sarvant, doctor; your sarvant, ma'am; sarvant, all the company.”
Mrs. Dodd hoped the poor woman had nothing very serious the matter.
”Oh, it is a mortal disease,” replied Sampson, as cool as a cuc.u.mber.
”She has got angina pictoris or brist-pang, a disorder that admirably eximplifies the pretinsions of midicine t' seeince.” And with this he dashed into monologue.
Maxley's tall gaunt form came slouching in, and traversed the floor, pounding it with heavy nailed boots. He seated himself gravely at Mrs.
Dodd's invitation, took a handkerchief out of his hat, wiped his face, and surveyed the company, grand and calm. In James Maxley all was ponderous: his head was huge, his mouth, when it fairly opened, revealed a chasm, and thence issued a voice naturally stentorian by its volume and native vigour; but, when the owner of this incarnate ba.s.soon had a mind to say something sagacious, he sank at once from his habitual roar to a sound scarce above a whisper; a contrast mighty comical to hear, though on paper _nil._
”Well, what is it Maxley! Rheumatism again?”
”No, that it ain't,” bellowed Maxley defiantly.
”What then? Come, look sharp.”
”Well, then, doctor, I'll tell you. I'm sore troubled--with--a--mouse.”
This malady, announced in the tone of a proclamation, and coming after so much solemn preparation, amused the party considerably, although parturient mountains had ere then produced muscipular abortions.
”A mouse!” inquired Sampson disdainfully. ”Where? Up your sleeve? Don't come to me: go t' a sawbones and have your arm cut off. I've seen 'em mutilate a pas.h.i.+nt for as little.”
Maxley said it was not up his sleeve, worse luck.
On this Alfred hazarded a conjecture. ”Might it not have gone down his throat? Took his potato-trap for the pantry-door. Ha! ha!”