“But, sir, though, though”—­began he—­“but, of course you will allow me, being a stranger—­and as a man of business—­all I have to say is, if—­that is to say—­”

“You want to know why, if I’ve had all these good businesses, why I haven’t kept them?”

“Ex—­actly,” stammered Heale much relieved.

“A very sensible and business-like question:  but you needn’t have been so delicate about asking it as to want a screw before beginning.”

“Ah, you’re a wag, sir,” keckled the old man,

“I’ll tell you frankly; I have an old father, sir,—­a gentleman, and a scholar, and a man of science; once in as good a country practice as man could have, till, God help him, he went blind, sir—­and I had to keep him, and have still.  I went over the world to make my fortune and never made it; and sent him home what I did make, and little enough too.  At last, in my despair, I went to the diggings, and had a pretty haul—­I needn’t say how much.  That matters little now; for I suppose it’s at the bottom of the sea.  There’s my story, sir, and a poor one enough it is,—­for the dear old man, at least.”  And Tom’s voice trembled so as he told it, that old Heale believed every word, and, what is more, being—­like most hard drinkers—­not “unused to the melting mood,” wiped his eyes fervently, and went off for another drop of comfort; while Tom dusted and arranged on, till the shop began to look quite smart and business-like.

“Now, sir!”—­when the old man came back—­“business is business, and beggars must not be choosers.  I don’t want to meddle with your practice; I know the rules of the profession:  but if you’ll let me sit here and mix your medicines for you, you’ll have the more time to visit your patients, that’s clear,”—­and, perhaps (thought he), to drink your brandy-and-water,—­“and when any of them are poisoned by me, it will be time to kick me out.  All I ask is, bed and board.  Don’t be frightened for your spirit-bottle, I can drink water; I’ve done it many a time, for a week together, in the prairies, and been thankful for a half-pint in the day.”

“But, sir, your dignity as a—­”

“Fiddlesticks for dignity; I must live, sir.  Only lend me a couple of sheets of paper and two queen’s heads, that I may tell my friends my whereabouts,—­and go and talk it over with Mrs. Heale.  We must never act without consulting the ladies.”

That day Tom sent off the following epistle:—­

“To CHARLES SHUTER, Esq., M.D, St. Mumpsimus’s Hospital, London.

“DEAR CHARLEY—­

  “’I do adjure thee, by old pleasant days,
      Quartier Latin, and neatly-shod grisettes
    By all our wanderings in quaint by-ways,
      By ancient frolics, and by ancient debts,’