And up came Toole, with his brows knit, and his chin high, marching over the pavement in a mighty fuss, for he knew that the oracle's time and temper were not to be trifled with.
In the club, Larry the drawer, as he set a pint of mulled claret by old Arthur Slowe's elbow, whispered something in his ear, with a solemn wink.
'Ho!--by Jove, gentlemen, the doctor's come--Doctor Pell.

His coach stands at Sturk's door, Larry says, and we'll soon hear how he fares.' And up got Major O'Neill with a 'hey! ho--ho!' and out he went, followed by old Slowe, with his little tankard in his fist, to the inn-door, where the major looked on the carriage, lighted up by the footman's flambeau, beneath the old village elm--up the street--smoking his pipe still to keep it burning, and communicating with Slowe, two words at a time.

And Slowe stood gazing at the same object with his little faded blue eyes, his disengaged hand in his breeches' pocket, and ever and anon wetting his lips with his hot cordial, and assenting agreeably to the major's conclusions.
'Seize ace! curse it!' cried Cluffe, who, I'm happy to say, had taken no harm by his last night's wetting; 'another gammon, I'll lay you fifty.' 'Toole, I dare thay, will look in and tell us how poor Sturk goes on,' said Puddock, playing his throw.
'Hang it, Puddock, mind your game--to be sure, he will.

Cinque ace! well, _curse_ it! the same throw over again! 'Tis too bad.

I missed taking you last time, with that stupid blot you've covered--and now, by Jove, it ruins me.