To Murray’s astonishment the animal began to tremble excessively; the perspiration was seen to flow from him in torrents; he appeared feeble and collapsed; and seemed scarcely able to stand on his limbs, which were shaking as if with terror under him.

“Why, Mr. Murray,” said Woodward, “I am very glad I did not buy him; the beast is ill, and will be for the dogs of the neighborhood in three days’ time.”

“Until the last five minutes, sir, there wasn’t a sounder horse in Europe.”

“Look at him now, then,” said Woodward; “do you call that a sound horse?  Take him into the stable; before the expiration of three days you will be flaying him.”

His words were prophetic.  In three days’ time the fine and healthy animal was a carcass.

“Ah!” said the farmer, when he saw the horse lying dead before him, “this fellow is his mother’s son.  From the time he looked into the horse’s eyes the poor beast sank so rapidly that he didn’t pass the third day alive.  And there are fifty guineas out of my pocket.  The curse of God on him wherever he goes!”

Woodward provided himself, however, with another horse, and in due time set out for the Spa at Ballyspellan.

The dinner was now fixed for a certain day, and Squire Manifold felt himself in high spirits as often as he could recollect the circumstance—­which, indeed, was but rarely, the worthy epicure’s memory having nearly abandoned him.  Topertoe, of the gout, and he were old acquaintances and companions, and had spent many a merry night together—­both, as the proverb has it, being tarred with the same stick.  Topertoe was as great a glutton as the other, but without his desperate voracity in food, whilst in drink he equalled if he did not surpass him.  Manifold would have forgotten every thing about the dinner had he not from time to time been reminded of it by his companion.

“Manifold, we will have a great day on Thursday.”

“Great!” exclaimed Manifold, who in addition to his other stupidities, was as deaf as a post; “great—­eh?  What size will it be?”

“What size will it be?  Why, confound it, man, don’t you know what I’m saying?”

“No, I don’t—­yes, I do—­you are talking about something great.  O, I know now—­your toe you mean—­where the gout lies.  They say, it begins at the great toe, and goes up to the stomach.  I suppose Alexander the Great was gouty and got his name from that.”

“I’m talking of the great dinner we’re I to have on Thursday,” shouted Topertoe.  “We’ll have a splendid feed then, my famous old trencherman, and I’ll take care that Doctor Doolittle shall not stint you.”

“There won’t be any toast and water—­eh?”

“Devil a mouthful; and we are to have the celebrated Cooke, the Pythagorean.”

“Ay, but is he a good cook?”

“He’s the celebrated Pythagorean, I tell you.”

“Pythagorean—­what’s that?  I thought you said he was a cook.  Does he understand venison properly?  O, good Lord! what a life I’m leading!  Toast and water—­toast and water.  But it’s all the result of this famine.  And yet they know I’m wealthy.  I say, what’s this your name is?”