" He took a slip of paper from his pocket, and handed it to
Betteredge. "The list for next week," he said. His eyes just rested on
me again--and he left the room as quietly as he had entered it.
"Who is that?" I asked.
"Mr. Candy's assistant," said Betteredge. "By-the-bye, Mr. Franklin, you
will be sorry to hear that the little doctor has never recovered that
illness he caught, going home from the birthday dinner. He's pretty
well in health; but he lost his memory in the fever, and he has never
recovered more than the wreck of it since. The work all falls on his
assistant. Not much of it now, except among the poor. THEY can't help
themselves, you know. THEY must put up with the man with the piebald
hair, and the gipsy complexion--or they would get no doctoring at all."
"You don't seem to like him, Betteredge?"
"Nobody likes him, sir."
"Why is he so unpopular?"
"Well, Mr. Franklin, his appearance is against him, to begin with.
And then there's a story that Mr. Candy took him with a very doubtful
character. Nobody knows who he is--and he hasn't a friend in the place.
How can you expect one to like him, after that?"
"Quite impossible, of course! May I ask what he wanted with you, when he
gave you that bit of paper?"
"Only to bring me the weekly list of the sick people about here,
sir, who stand in need of a little wine.
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