Ask Winterbones there." "Indeed, now, Scatcherd, you ain't; you're bad enough if you only knew it.

And as for Winterbones, he has no business here up in your bedroom, which stinks of gin so, it does.

Don't you believe him, doctor; he ain't well, nor yet nigh well." Winterbones, when the above ill-natured allusion was made to the aroma coming from his libations, might be seen to deposit surreptitiously beneath the little table at which he sat, the cup with which he had performed them.
The doctor, in the meantime, had taken Sir Roger's hand on the pretext of feeling his pulse, but was drawing quite as much information from the touch of the sick man's skin, and the look of the sick man's eye.
"I think Mr Winterbones had better go back to the London office," said he.

"Lady Scatcherd will be your best clerk for some time, Sir Roger." "Then I'll be d---- if Mr Winterbones does anything of the kind," said he; "so there's an end of that." "Very well," said the doctor.

"A man can die but once.