“A vegetable diet, gentlemen, is that which was appointed for us by Providence, and water like this our drink. And, indeed, water like this is delicious drink. The Spa of Ballyspellan stands unrivalled for strength and flavor, and its capacity of exhilarating the animal spirits is extraordinary. You see, gentlemen, how copiously I drink it; servant, fill my glass again--thank you.” In the meantime, and before he touched it, the doctor whipped another glass of whiskey into it--an act which the Pythagorean, who was, as we have said, unusually tall, and kept his eye upon the company, could neither suspect nor see. “It has been ignorantly said that the structure of the human mouth is an argument against me as to the quality of our food, and that the growth of grapes is a proof that wine was ordained to be drank by men. It is perfectly well known that a man may eat a bushel of grapes without getting drunk; because the pure vegetable possesses no intoxicating power any more than the water which I am now drinking--and delicious water it is!” Here the doctor dug his elbow into the fat ribs of Topertoe, whose face, in the meantime, seemed in a blaze of indignation. “I tell you what, philosopher, curse me, but you are an infidel.” “I have the honor, sir,” he replied, “to be an infidel--as every philosopher is. The truth of what I am stating to you has been tested by philosophers, and it has been ascertained, that no quantity of grapes eaten by an individual could make him drunk.” The doctor gave the parson another dig, and winked at him to keep quiet. “Sir,” said the parson, unable, however, to restrain himself, “confound me if ever I heard such infidel opinions expressed in my life. Damn your philosophy; it is cursed nonsense, and nothing else.” “A vegetable diet,” proceeded Cooke, “is a guarantee for health and long life--O Lord!” he exclaimed, “this accursed rheumatism will be the death of me.” “What is he saying?” asked Manifold. “He is talking philosophy,” replied the doctor, with a comic grin, “and recommending a vegetable diet and pure water.” “A devilish scoundrel,” said Manifold. “He's a rat, too. Doolittle's a rat; but I'll poison him; yes, I'll dose him with ratsbane, and then I can eat, drink, and swill away. Is the philosopher's wife a cripple?” “He has no wife,” replied Doolittle. “And what the devil, then, is he a philosopher for? What on earth challenges philosophy in a husband so much as a wife,--especially if she's a cripple and has the use of her tongue?” “Not being a married man myself,” replied the doctor, “I can give you no information on the subject; or rather I could if I would; but it would not be for your comfort:--ask Manifold.” “Ay; but he says there's something wrong about his head--sprouts pressing up, or something that way. Ask Mrs. Rosebud will she hob or nob with me. Mrs. Rosebud,” he proceeded, addressing the widow, “hob or nob?”