“He's the oldest man in these parts,” pursued his loquacious companion. “There's some folks that seem a dyin' all the time, and for all that manage to outlive half the young folks in the neighborhood. Old Keziah Onthank is a complete case in p'int. As long ago as when I was cutting my teeth he was so old that nobody know'd how old he was. He was so bowed over that he couldn't see himself in the looking-glass unless you put it on the floor, and I guess even then what he saw wouldn't pay him for his trouble. He was always ailin' some way or other. Now it was rheumatism, now the palsy, and then again the asthma. He had THAT awful. “He lived in the same tumble-down old shanty we have just passed,--so poor that nobody'd take the gift of it. People said that he'd orter go to the poorhouse, so that when he was sick--which was pretty much all the time--he'd have somebody to take care of him. But he'd got kinder attached to the old place, seein' he was born there, and never lived anywhere else, and go he wouldn't. “Everybody expected he was near his end, and nobody'd have been surprised to hear of his death at any minute. But it's strange how some folks are determined to live on, as I said before. So Keziah, though he looked so old when I was a boy that it didn't seem as if he could look any older, kept on livin,' and livin', and arter I got married to Betsy Sprague, he was livin' still. “One day, I remember I was passin' by the old man's shanty, when I heard a dreadful groanin', and thinks I to myself, 'I shouldn't wonder if the old man was on his last legs.' So in I bolted. There he was, to be sure, a lyin', on the bed, all curled up into a heap, breathin' dreadful hard, and lookin' as white and pale as any ghost. I didn't know exactly what to do, so I went and got some water, but he motioned it away, and wouldn't drink it, but kept on groanin'. “'He mustn't be left here to die without any assistance,' thinks I, so I ran off as fast I could to find the doctor. “I found him eatin' dinner---- “Come quick,” says I, “to old Keziah Onthank's. He's dyin', as sure as my name is Jehoshaphat.” “Well,” said the doctor, “die or no die, I can't come till I've eaten my dinner.” “But he's dyin', doctor.” “Oh, nonsense. Talk of old Keziah Onthank's dyin'. He'll live longer than I shall.” “I recollect I thought the doctor very unfeelin' to talk so of a fellow creetur, just stepping into eternity, as a body may say. However, it's no use drivin' a horse that's made up his mind he won't go, so although I did think the doctor dreadful deliberate about eatin' his dinner (he always would take half an hour for it), I didn't dare to say a word for fear he wouldn't come at all. You see the doctor was dreadful independent, and was bent on havin' his own way, pretty much, though for that matter I think it's the case with most folks. However, to come back to my story, I didn't feel particularly comfortable while I was waitin' his motions.