I think you had better not have agitated him,' muttered Toole with an impatient oath.
''Tis worse to keep his mind doubtful, and on the stretch,' said Lowe.
'Doctor Toole, Sir, has told you the bright side of the case.

It is necessary, making the deposition you propose, that you should know t'other.' 'Yes, of course--quite right--go on,' said Sturk faintly.
'Why, you know,' said Toole, sniffing, and a little sulkily, 'you know, Doctor Sturk, we, doctors, like to put the best foot foremost; but you can't but be aware, that with the fractures--_two_ fractures--along the summit of the skull, and the operation by the trepan, behind your head, just accomplished, there must be, of course, some danger.' 'I see.

Sir,' said Sturk, very quietly, but looking awfully cadaverous; 'all I want to know is, how long you think I may live ?' 'You may recover altogether, Sir--you may--but, of course--you may--there's a chance; and things might not go right,' said Toole, taking snuff.
'I see--Sir--'tis enough'-- and there was a pause.

'I'd like to have the sacrament, and pray with the clergyman a little--Lord help me!--and my will--only a few words--I don't suppose there's much left me; but there's a power of appointment--a reversion of L600, stock--I'm tired.' 'Here, take this,' said Toole, and put half-a-dozen spoonsful of claret and water into his lips, and he seemed to revive a little.

'There's no immediate hurry--upon my honour, Doctor Sturk, there isn't,' said Toole.
'Just rest aisy a bit; you're disturbed a good deal, Sir; your pulse shows it; and you need not, I assure you, upon my conscience and honour--'tis quite on the cards you may recover.' And as he spoke, Toole was dropping something from a phial into a wine-glass--sal volatile--ether--I can't say; but when Dr.Sturk swallowed it there was a 'potter-carrier's' aroma about the room.
Then there was a pause for a while, and Toole kept his fingers on his pulse; and Sturk looked, for some time, as if he were on the point of fainting, which, in his case, might have proved very like dying.
'Have you the claret bottle in the room ?' demanded Toole, a little flurried; for Sturk's pulses were playing odd pranks, and bounding and sinking in a dance of death.
'The what, Sir ?' asked the maid.
'The _wine_, woman--this instant,' said the doctor, with a little stamp.
So, the moment he had the bottle, he poured out half a large glass, and began spooning it into Sturk's white parted lips.
Lowe looked on very uneasily; for he expected, as Toole did also, prodigious revelations; though each had a suspicion that he divined their nature tolerably clearly.
'Give him some more,' said Toole, with his fingers on the sick man's wrist, and watching his countenance.