old fellows unconsciously deferred to this temporary
self-assertion, and would call him, not Tom, nor Toole, but 'doctor,' or
'Doctor Toole,' when the fit was upon him.

And Devereux, in his day, won two or three wagers by naming the doctor
with whom Toole had been closeted, reading the secret in the countenance
and by-play of their crony. When it had been with tall, cold, stately
Dr. Pell, Toole was ceremonious and deliberate, and oppressively polite.
On the other hand, when he had been shut up with brusque, half-savage,
energetic Doctor Rogerson, Tom was laconic, decisive, and insupportably
ill-bred, till, as we have said, the mirage melted away, and he
gradually acquiesced in his identity. Then, little by little, the
irrepressible gossip, jocularity, and ballad minstrelsy were heard
again, his little eyes danced, and his waggish smiles glowed once more,
ruddy as a setting sun, through the nectarian vapours of the punch-bowl.
The ghosts of Pell and Rogerson fled to their cold dismal shades, and
little Tom Toole was his old self again for a month to come.

'Your most obedient, gentlemen--your most obedient,' said Toole, bowing
and taking their hands graciously in the hall--'a darkish evening,
gentlemen.'

'And how does your patient, doctor?' enquired Major O'Neil.

The doctor closed his eyes, and shook his head slowly, with a gentle
shrug.

'He's in a bad case, major. There's little to be said, and that little,
Sir, not told in a moment,' answered Toole, and took snuff.

'How's Sturk, Sir?' repeated the silver spectacles, a little sternly.

'Well, Sir, he's not _dead_; but, by your leave, had we not better go
into the parlour, eh?--'tis a little chill, and, as I said, 'tis not all
told in a moment--he's not dead, though, that's the sum of it--_you_
first, pray proceed, gentlemen.'

Dangerfield grimly took him at his word; but the polite major got up a
little ceremonious tussle with Toole in the hall. However, it was no
more than a matter of half-a-dozen bows and waves of the hand, and
'after you, Sir;' and Toole entered, and after a general salutation in
the style of Doctor Pell, he established himself upon the hearth-stone,
with his back to the fire, as a legitimate oracle.

Toole was learned, as he loved to be among the laity on such occasions,
and was in no undue haste to bring his narrative to a close. But the
gist of the matter was this--Sturk was labouring under concussion of the
brain, and two terrifi