d by the commin hangman.' All which rhapsody
conjured up a confused and dyspeptic dream, full of absurd and terrific
images, which she could not well comprehend, except in so far as it
seemed clear that some signal disaster had befallen Sturk.

That night, at nine o'clock, the great Doctor Pell arrived in his coach,
with steaming horses, at Sturk's hall-door, where the footman thundered
a tattoo that might have roused the dead; for it was the family's
business, if they did not want a noise, to muffle the knocker. And the
doctor strode up, directed by the whispering awestruck maid, to Sturk's
bed-chamber, with his hands in his muff, after the manner of doctors in
his day, without asking questions, or hesitating on lobbies, for the
sands of his minutes ran out in gold-dust. So, with a sort of awe and
suppressed bustle preceding and following him, he glided up stairs and
straight to the patient's bedside, serene, saturnine, and rapid.

In a twinkling the maid was running down the street for Toole, who had
kept at home, in state costume, expecting the consultation with the
great man, which he liked. And up came Toole, with his brows knit, and
his chin high, marching over the pavement in a mighty fuss, for he knew
that the oracle's time and temper were not to be trifled with.

In the club, Larry the drawer, as he set a pint of mulled claret by old
Arthur Slowe's elbow, whispered something in his ear, with a solemn
wink.

'Ho!--by Jove, gentlemen, the doctor's come--Doctor Pell. His coach
stands at Sturk's door, Larry says, and we'll soon hear how he fares.'
And up got Major O'Neill with a 'hey! ho--ho!' and out he went, followed
by old Slowe, with his little tankard in his fist, to the inn-door,
where the major looked on the carriage, lighted up by the footman's
flambeau, beneath the old village elm--up the street--smoking his pipe
still to keep it burning, and communicating with Slowe, two words at a
time. And Slowe stood gazing at the same object with his little faded
blue eyes, his disengaged hand in his breeches' pocket, and ever and
anon wetting his lips with his hot cordial, and assenting agreeably to
the major's conclusions.

'Seize ace! curse it!' cried Cluffe, who, I'm happy to say, had taken no
harm by his last night's wetting; 'another gammon, I'll lay you fifty.'

'Toole, I dare thay, will look in and tell us how poor Sturk goes on,'
said Puddock, playing his throw.

'Hang it, Puddock, mind your game--to b