"Very good," said Sir William. "How much?" "A hundred!" "It is a wager!" Sir William took out his pencil and scrawled some figures on his shirt cuff. "I'll take you too, Husband," cried Mr. Cavanagh. "And I," chorused Dr. Fulton and Sir Charles. "No thanks," retorted Mr. Husband drily. "My book is full. How are you feeling yourself, Venner?" "Nice and poorly, thanks, but with care I'll out-last the lot of you!" He broke out into a fit of coughing as he finished speaking, and the others bending forward, watched him eagerly. Their expressions reminded me of a lot of hungry carnivora eyeing a bone held just beyond their reach. They drank their soup in silence, but while I served to them the entrée, they conversed again. "I'm in the hands of a quack," began Nevil Pardoe. "The enterprising devil has agreed to cure me for the sake of an advertisement." "Oh! How long?" "Ten days now. Upon honour I feel a little better already." "Where is he to be found?" demanded my master suddenly. A roar of laughter drowned the reply. But Sir William looked annoyed. "It's not that I want to live," he explained in tones of anger. "I know I'm doomed, but Cavanagh stands to lose two thousand pounds--if I predecease Pardoe, and as he is only a poor devil of an artist--I'd like to improve his chances!" "Quite so," sneered Sir Charles. "We all know your affection for Cavanagh. But my dear Dagmar, fair play is a jewel you know. You must kill or cure yourself off your own bat, unless you choose to pair with Pardoe and adopt his treatment altogether. Those are the rules." "You need not remind me," said my master drily. "By the way, Husband, what was the result of your last examination?" "Two pounds short of my former weight, but the hole in my remaining lung has not sensibly increased. Jackson gives me solid assurance of at least twelve months." "Lucky devil!" sighed Mr. Cavanagh. "I'm booked in half the time, though I might drag on for a year or two if I were to try Egypt!" "Has your limit been changed since our last meeting, Fulton," asked Mr. Pardoe. "Only by effluxion of the intervening time. I'll feed the worms in just under ten months, unless a cab runs over me, or some other accident occurs." Sir William raised his wineglass. "Gentlemen," said he, "I drink to the Tubercle Bacillus!" "Our master!" chorused the others, and every glass was drained. I quickly refilled all but Sir William's, wondering the while whether I had fallen among an assembly of ghouls, or if I was not the victim of some ghastly joke. The _pièce de résistance_ of the dinner was a dressed calf's head, which Sir William Dagmar carved. Not one of his guests began to eat until all were helped. But when that was done, my master suddenly ordered me to leave the room. Butts regarded me enquiringly as I came out. "Spoke some foreign lingo, didn't they?" he asked. I nodded. "They allers do," he went on. "Why, I don't know, for the life o' me. A lot of death's heads I call them."