By the help of Mr. Pertinax Fillgrave, Walter was detained several days in the town; nor is it wholly improbable, but that for the dexterity of the Corporal, he might be in the town to this day; not, indeed in the comfortable shelter of the old-fashioned inn, but in the colder quarters of a certain green spot, in which, despite of its rural attractions, few persons are willing to fix a permanent habitation. Luckily, however, one evening, the Corporal, who had been, to say truth, very regular in his attendance on his master; for, bating the selfishness, consequent, perhaps, on his knowledge of the world, Jacob Bunting was a good-natured man on the whole, and liked his master as well as he did any thing, always excepting Jacobina, and board-wages; one evening, we say, the Corporal coming into Walter’s apartment, found him sitting up in his bed, with a very melancholy and dejected expression of countenance. “And well, Sir, what does the Doctor say?” asked the Corporal, drawing aside the curtains. “Ah, Bunting, I fancy it’s all over with me!” “The Lord forbid, Sir! you’re a-jesting, surely?” “Jesting! my good fellow, ah! just get me that phial.” “The filthy stuff!” said the Corporal, with a wry face; “Well, Sir, if I had had the dressing of you--been half way to Yorkshire by this. Man’s a worm; and when a doctor gets un on his hook, he is sure to angle for the devil with the bait--augh!” “What! you really think that damned fellow, Fillgrave, is keeping me on in this way?” “Is he a fool, to give up three phials a day, 4s. 6d. item, ditto, ditto?” cried the Corporal, as if astonished at the question; “but don’t you feel yourself getting a deal better every day? Don’t you feel all this ere stuff revive you?” No, indeed, I was amazingly better the first day than I am now; I progress from worse to worse. Ah! Bunting, if Peter Dealtry were here, he might help me to an appropriate epitaph: as it is, I suppose I shall be very simply labelled. Fillgrave will do the whole business, and put it down in his bill--item, nine draughts--item, one epitaph. “Lord-a-mercy, your honour,” said the Corporal, drawing out a little red-spotted pocket-handkerchief; “how can--jest so?--it’s quite moving.” “I wish we were moving!” sighed the patient. “And so we might be,” cried the Corporal; “so we might, if you’d pluck up a bit. Just let me look at your honour’s head; I knows what a confusion is better nor any of ‘em.” The Corporal having obtained permission, now removed the bandages wherewith the Doctor had bound his intended sacrifice to Pluto, and after peering into the wounds for about a minute, he thrust out his under lip, with a contemptuous, “Pshaugh! augh! And how long,” said he, “does Master Fillgrave say you be to be under his hands,--augh!” “He gives me hopes that I may be taken out an airing very gently, (yes, hearses always go very gently!) in about three weeks!”