“You 've had a consultation, my friend,--not a visit, but a regular consultation. You've not been treated like the outer populace, and only heard the oracles from afar, but you have been suffered to sit down beside the augur, to question him, and to drink with him. Pay,--nothing to pay! I'll cure your boy, there's my word on't. These cases are specialities with me. Bell used to say, 'Ask Layton to look at that fellow in such a ward; he's the only one of us understands this sort of thing. Layton will tell us all about it.' And I 'm Layton! Ay, sir, this poor, shabby, ill-dressed fellow that you see before you is that same Herbert Layton; so much for brains and ability to work a man's way in life! Order another quart of Isla whiskey, man,--that's my fee; at least it shall be to-day. Tell them to send me pen, ink, and paper, and not disturb me; tell them, besides--no, nevermind, I'll tell them that! And now, good-day, my honest fellow. _You_ 've been _my_ physician to-day as much as _I_ have been _yours_. You have cured a sick heart--cheated it, at least--out of one paroxysm, and so, a good journey, and safe home to you. Send me news of your boy, and good-bye.” And his head dropped as he spoke; his arms fell heavily at his sides; and he appeared to have sunk into a profound sleep. The stupor was but brief; the farmer was not well out of the village when Layton, calling for a basin of cold water, plunged his face and part of his head in it, baring his brawny throat, and bathing it with the refreshing liquid. As he was thus employed, he caught sight of his face reflected in a much-cracked mirror over the fireplace, and stood gazing for a few seconds at his blotched and bloated countenance. “A year or two left still, belike,” muttered he. “Past insuring, but still seaworthy, or, at least”--and here his voice assumed an intense mockery in tone,--“at least, capable of more shipwreck!” The sight of the writing-materials on the table seemed to recall him to something he had half forgotten, and, after a pause of reflection, he arranged the paper before him and sat down to write. With the ease of one to whom composition was familiar, he dashed off a somewhat long letter; but though he wrote with great rapidity, he recurred from time to time to the whiskey-bottle, drinking the strong spirits undiluted, and, to all seeming, unmoved by its potency. “There,” cried he, as he finished, “I have scuttled my own ship; let's see what will come of it.”