Mr Winterbones was confidential clerk to Sir Roger.  That is to say, he was a writing-machine of which Sir Roger made use to do certain work which could not well be adjusted without some contrivance.  He was a little, withered, dissipated, broken-down man, whom gin and poverty had nearly burnt to a cinder, and dried to an ash.  Mind he had none left, nor care for earthly things, except the smallest modicum of substantial food, and the largest allowance of liquid sustenance.  All that he had ever known he had forgotten, except how to count up figures and to write:  the results of his counting and his writing never stayed with him from one hour to another; nay, not from one folio to another.  Let him, however, be adequately screwed up with gin, and adequately screwed down by the presence of his master, and then no amount of counting and writing would be too much for him.  This was Mr Winterbones, confidential clerk to the great Sir Roger Scatcherd.

‘We must send Winterbones away, I take it,’ said the doctor.

’Indeed, doctor, I wish you would.  I wish you’d send him to Bath, or anywhere else out of the way.  There is Scatcherd, he takes brandy; and there is Winterbones, he takes gin; and it’d puzzle a woman to say which is worst, master or man.’

It will seem from this, that Lady Scatcherd and the doctor were on very familiar terms as regarded her little domestic inconveniences.

‘Tell Sir Roger I am here, will you?’ said the doctor.

‘You’ll take a drop of sherry before you go up?’ said the lady.

‘Not a drop, thank you,’ said the doctor.

‘Or, perhaps a little cordial?’

‘Not of drop of anything, thank you; I never do, you know.’

‘Just a thimbleful of this?’ said the lady, producing from some recess under a sideboard a bottle of brandy; ’just a thimbleful?  It’s what he takes himself.’

When Lady Scatcherd found that even this argument failed, she led the way to the great man’s bedroom.

‘Well, doctor! well, doctor!, well, doctor!’ was the greeting with which our son of Galen was saluted some time before he entered the sick-room.  His approaching step was heard, and thus the ci-devant Barchester stone-mason saluted his coming friend.  The voice was loud and powerful, but not clear and sonorous.  What voice that is nurtured on brandy can ever be clear?  It had about it a peculiar huskiness, a dissipated guttural tone, which Thorne immediately recognized, and recognized as being more marked, more guttural, and more husky than heretofore.

’So you’ve smelt me out, have you, and come for your fee?  Ha! ha! ha!  Well, I have had a sharpish bout of it, as her ladyship there no doubt has told you.  Let her alone to make the worst of it.  But, you see, you’re too late, man.  I’ve bilked the old gentleman again without troubling you.’

‘Anyway, I’m glad you’re something better, Scatcherd.’