In the midst of this fairy-like creation sat the proprietor thereof, by a hot-air stove, wrapped in a woollen dressing-gown, and engaged in measuring out his daily drops. A respectful manservant, wrinkled like a snake, and black-clothed like a rook, stood beside Mr. Spolger with a small printed form of directions, which he was reading for his master's information, with regard to the effects of the drops. The servant, Gimp by name, was moist about the eyes, a fact which suggested drink, and he read the dull little pamphlet in a subdued whisper which was pleasant to the ears of the valetudinarian. "The effect of these drops," droned Gimp, with a weary sigh, for the pamphlet was by no means exciting, "is to raise the spirits. Mrs. Mopps, of Whitechapel, who suffered from rheumatics engendered by her daily occupation of charing, was advised to try them by a humble friend who had been cured by them of liver complaint. Mrs. Mopps did so, and took four drops daily in a wine-glassful of gin. She is now cured--" "Ah!" said Spolger, with great satisfaction, "she is now cured." "And doesn't suffer more than three days a week," finished Gimp, in a depressed tone. "Oh, she's not quite cured, then," observed his master, regretfully; "it must have been the gin. Gin is so very bad." "Very bad, sir," replied Gimp, like a parrot. "It makes the eyes moist." Mr. Gimp closed his own eyes tightly, aware that they betrayed him; but his master was too busy with his own ailments to trouble about the looks of any one else, and went on carefully with his measuring. "Eight," he said, handing the bottle back to Gimp, "I think that will do for a beginning. How many diseases does it cure, did you say?" "Seven," said Gimp, drearily; "liver, rheumatism, headache, bed sores, nerves, consumption, and delirious trimmings." "Quite an all-round medicine. I've got a liver, and I often have a headache. I had rheumatism the winter before last; my nerves, of course, I always have. Bed sores? No, I've not had bed sores--yet." "Not been in bed long enough, sir, I think," hinted Gimp, respectfully. "No, quite right; but I may come to it. Consumption? Well, you know, Gimp, I'm not quite sure of my lung? What's the last?" "Delirious trimmings, sir." "I've not had that--I don't think I ever will have it; drink is death to me. I hope these drops will do me good. Give me the water, please. Ah, there that's right. Now!" He drank off the mixture slowly, with the air of a connoisseur, and gave the empty glass to the servant. "Not much taste, Gimp. No; I've tasted nastier. Put the glass away, please. Have you heard how Miss Marson is to-day?" "Just the same, sir. Delirious." "Ah! how terrible! I wonder if those drops would do her good?" "I think not, sir," said Gimp, drifting towards the door; "it's 'er 'ead, ain't it, sir, not drink?"