He was
piteously, doggishly thankful for his drink, and he cried as he bleated
out his prayers for my good health. Men cry readily when they come to be
in the Doctor's condition. I asked him to take some soup. "I'm no great
eater," he said; "but I'd like just one more with you--only one."
"Where do you lodge, Doctor?"
"To tell you the truth, I'm forced to put up with a berth in the old
fowl-house at the bottom of the garden here. They let me stay there, but
'tis cold--cold."
"Do you work at all now?"
"Sometimes. But there is little doing--very little."
"How did you come to cease practising at the Bar, Doctor?"
"How do I come to be here? 'Tis the old thing--the old thing--and has
been all along."
This poor wretch could not be allowed to go about half-naked, so I let
the potman run out and get him a slop suit. (The Doctor sold the
clothes next day for half-a-crown, and was speechless when I went to see
him.) A hopeless, helpless wretch was the Doctor--the most hopeless I
ever knew.
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