CHAPTER XCV.
IN WHICH DOCTOR PELL DECLINES A FEE, AND DOCTOR STURK A PRESCRIPTION.
In entering the front parlour from whence, in no small excitement, there
issued the notes of a course diapason, which he fancied was known to
him, he found Mr. Justice Lowe in somewhat tempestuous conference with
the visitor.
He was, in fact, no other than Black Dillon; black enough he looked just
now. He had only a moment before returned from a barren visit to the
Brass Castle, and was in no mood to be trifled with.
'Twasn't I, Sir, but Mr. Dangerfield, who promised you five hundred
guineas,' said Mr. Lowe, with a dry nonchalance.
'Five hundred fiddles,' retorted Doctor Dillon—his phrase was coarser, and Toole at that moment entering the door, and divining the situation from the doctor's famished glare and wild gestures, exploded, I'm sorry to say in a momentary burst of laughter, into his cocked hat. 'Twas instantly stifled, however; and when Dillon turned his flaming eyes upon him, the little doctor made him a bow of superlative gravity, which the furious hero of the trepan was too full of his wrongs to notice in any way.
'I was down at his house, bedad, the "Brass Castle," if you plase, and
not a brass farthin' for my pains, nothing there but an ould woman, as
ould and as ugly as himself, or the divil—be gannies! An' he's
levanted, or else tuck for debt. Brass Castle! brass forehead, bedad. Brass, like Goliath, from head to heels; an' by the heels he's laid, I'll take my davy, considherin' at his laysure which is strongest—a brass castle or a stone jug. An' where, Sir, am I to get my five hundred guineas—where, Sir?' he thundered, staring first in Lowe's face, then in Toole's, and dealing the table a lusty blow at each interrogatory.
'I think, Sir,' said Lowe, anticipating Toole, 'you'd do well to
consider the sick man, Sir.' The noise was certainly considerable.
'I don't know, Sir, that the sick man's considherin' me much,' retorted
Doctor Dillon. 'Sick man—sick grandmother's aunt! If you can't speak
like a man o' sense, don't spake, at any rate, like a justice o' the
pace. Sick man, indeed! why there's not a crature livin' barrin' a
natural eediot, or an apothecary, that doesn't know the man's dead; he's
dead, Sir; but 'tisn't so with me, an' I can't get on without vittles, and vittles isn't to be had without money; that's logic, Mr. Justice; that's a medical fact Mr. Docthor. An' how am I to get my five hundred guineas? I say, you and you—the both o' ye—that prevented me of going last night to his brass castle—brass snuff-box—there isn't room to stand in it, bedad—an' gettin' my money. I hold you both liable to me—one an' t'other—the both o' ye.'
'Why, Sir,' said Lowe, 'tis a honorarium.'
'Tis no such thing, Sir; 'tis a contract,' thundered Dillon, pulling
Dangerfield's note of promise from his pocket, and dealing it a mighty
slap with the back of his hand.
'Contract or no, Sir, there's nobody liable for it but himself.'
'We'll try that, Sir; and in the meantime, what the divil am I to do, I'd be glad to know; for strike me crooked if I have a crown piece to pay the coachman. Trepan, indeed; I'm nately trepanned myself.'
'If you'll only listen, Sir, I'll show you your case is well enough. Mr. Dangerfield, as you call him, has not left the country; and though he's arrested, 'tisn't for debt. If he owes you the money, 'tis your own fault if you don't make him pay it, for I'm credibly informed he's worth more than a hundred thousand pounds.'
'And where is he, Sir?' demanded Black Dillon, much more cheerfully and
amicably. 'I hope I see you well, Doctor Toole.'
That learned person acknowledged the somewhat tardy courtesy, and Lowe
made answer: