An hour or two later, the doctor's chaise stopped at the Hamlins. Doctors, as well as other people, were plainer-spoken in those days, especially in dealing with the poor. Dr. Partridge was a kind-hearted man, but it did not occur to him as it does to his successors of our day, to mince matters with patients, and cheer them up with hopeful generalities, reserving the bitter truths to whisper in the ears of their friends outside the door. After a look and a few words, he said to Fennell: “I can do you no good.” “Shall I die?” asked the sick man, faintly. “You may live a few weeks, but not longer. The disease has taken too strong a hold.” Fennell looked around the room. Prudence was not present. “Don't tell Prudy,” he said. As to Reuben, who was already looking much brighter than the preceding night, the doctor said: “He may get well,” and left a little medicine. Perez, who had been in the room, followed him out of doors. “Do you think my brother will get well?” he asked. “I think so, if he does not have to go back to jail.” “He will not go back unless I go with him,” said Perez. “Well, I think it most likely you will,” replied the doctor dryly. “On the whole, I should say his prospect of long life was better than yours, if I am speaking to Perez Hamlin, the mob captain.” “You mean I shall be hung?” “And drawn and quartered,” amended the doctor, grimly. “That is the penalty for treason, I believe.” “Perhaps,” said Perez. “We shall see. There will be fighting before hanging. At any rate, if I'm hung, it will be as long as it's short, for Reub would have died if I hadn't got him out of jail.” The doctor gathered up the reins. “I want to thank you for coming,” said Perez. “You know, I s'pose, that we are very poor, and can't promise much pay.” “If you'll see that your mob doesn't give me such a serenade as it did Squire Woodbridge last night, I'll call it square,” said the doctor, and drove off. Now, Meshech Little, the carpenter, had gone home and to bed towering drunk the night before, after taking part as a leading performer in the aforesaid serenade to the Squire. His sleep had been exceedingly dense, and in the morning when it became time for him to go to his work, it was only after repeated callings and shakings, that Mrs. Little was able to elicit the first sign of wakefulness. “You must get up,” she expostulated. “Sun's half way daown the west post, an ye know how mad Deacon Nash'll be ef ye don' git don shinglin his barn tidday.” After a series of heartrending groans and yawns, Meshech, who had tumbled on the bed in his clothes, got up and stood stretching and rubbing his eyes in the middle of the floor. “By gosh, it's kinder tough,” he said, “I wuz jess a dreamin ez I wuz latherin deakin. I'd jess swotted him one in the snout wen ye woke me, an naow, by gorry, I've got tew go an work fer the critter.” “An ye better hurry, tew,” urged his wife anxiously. “Ye know ye didn't dew the fuss thing all day yis'dy.”