But the apothecary for the moment was neither to hold nor to bind.
"Sam! _You_ have a grain of sense in your head.

Don't sit there mum-chance, man! Speak up and tell your mother not to be a fool.
You are no child; you know your father, and that, if given one chance in a hundred to act perversely, he'll take it as sure as fate.
For heaven's sake persuade your mother to use common caution and keep his finger out of this pie!" "Nay, sir," answered Sam, "I think she has the right of it, that my father ought to be told; and that the chances are he will leave it to Charles to decide." Matthew Wesley flung up his hands.

"'Tis a conspiracy of folly! Upon my professional word, you ought all to be strait-waistcoated!" He glared around, found speech again, and pounced upon Sam.
"A pretty success _you've_ made of your father's ambitions--you, with your infatuation for that rogue Atterbury, and your born gift of choosing the cold side of favour! You might have been Freind's successor, Head Master of Westminster School! Where's your chance now?
You'll not even get the under-mastership, I doubt.
Some country grammar school is your fate--I see it; and all for lack of sense.

If you lacked learning, lacked piety, lacked--" "Excuse me, sir, but these are matters I have no mind to discuss with you.

When Freind retires Nicoll will succeed him, and Nicoll deserves it.