But Alfred saw his game, stepped forward, and caught it with one hand, and with the dexterity of a wicket-keeper, within a foot of his father's nose. “How's that, Umpire?” said he: then, a little sternly, “Don't do that again, Mr. Maxley, or I shall have to give you a hiding--to keep up appearances.” He then put the notes in his pocket, and said quietly, _“I_ shall give you your money for these before the year ends.” “You won't be quite so mad as that, I hope,” remonstrated his father. But he made no reply: they very seldom answered one another now. “Oh,” said Dr. Wycherley, inspecting him like a human curiosity, “nullum magnum ingenium sine mixtura dementiae.” “Nec parvum sine mixtura stultitiae,” retorted Alfred in a moment and met his offensive gaze with a point-blank look of supercilious disdain. Then having shut him up, he turned to Osmond: “Come,” said he, “prescribe for this poor fellow, who asks for a hospital, so Routine gives him a workhouse. Come, you know there is no limit to your skill and good nature: you cured Spot of the worms, cure poor old Maxley of his snakes: oblige me.” “That I will, Mr. Alfred,” said Osmond heartily: and wrote a prescription on a leaf of his memorandum-book, remarking that though a simple purgative, it had made short work of a great many serpents and dragons, and not a few spectres and hobgoblins into the bargain. The young gentleman thanked him graciously, and said kindly to Maxley, “Get that made up--here's a guinea--and I'll send somebody to see how you are to-morrow.” The poor man took the guinea, and the prescription, and his head drooped again, and he slouched away. Dr. Wycherley remarked significantly that his conduct was worth imitating by _all persons similarly situated:_ and concluded oracularly: “Prophylaxis is preferable to therapeusis.” “Or, as _Porson_ would say, 'Prevention is better than cure.'” With this parting blow the Oxonian suddenly sauntered away, unconscious, it seemed, of the existence of his companions. “I never saw a plainer case of Incubation,” remarked Dr. Wycherley with vast benevolence of manner. “Maxley's?” “Oh, no; that is parochial. It is your profoundly interesting son I alluded to. Did you notice his supercilious departure? _And his morbid celerity of repartee?_” Mr. Hardie replied with some little hesitation, “Yes; and, excuse me, I thought he had rather the best of the battle with you.” “Indubitably so,” replied Dr. Wycherley: “they always do: at least such is my experience. If ever I break a lance of wit with an incubator! I calculate with confidence on being unhorsed with abnormal rapidity, and rare, indeed, are the instances in which my anticipations are not promptly and fully realised. By a similar rule of progression the incubator is seldom a match for the confirmed maniac, either in the light play of sarcasm, the coruscations of wit or the severer encounters of dialectical ratiocination.”