No such thing--Mr. Wade was cheated out of a fresh growl; the new arrival being a carpet-bag, and its accessory, Mr. John Doe, a brother-growler, whom Mr. Wade would rather have seen, if possible, than a new gold dollar. Mr. John Doe, as sallow as a badly-preserved pickle, and about as sweet--a man all nerves and frowns--a walking thunder-cloud, muttering vengeance against any thing animate, or inanimate, which had the temerity to bask in the sunshine. Mr. John Doe, a worse drug than any in his apothecary's shop, who believed in the eternal destruction of little dead babies; turned the world into one vast charnel-house, and reversed the verdict of Him who pronounced it "very good."
"Ah--how d'ye do--how dy'e do?" said Mr. Wade, with an impromptu lugubrious whine, as Mr. Doe ran his fingers through his grizzled locks, and deposited his time-worn carpet-bag in the corner; "it is pleasant to see a _friend_."
"Thank you, thank you," replied Mr. Doe, lowering himself as carefully into his chair as if he was afraid his joints would become unriveted; "there's no knowing how many more times you may have to say that; these sudden changes of weather are dreadful underminers of a man's constitution. Traveling, too, racks me to pieces; I can't sleep in a strange bed, nor get any thing I can eat when I wake, my appetite is so delicate;--sometimes I think it don't make much difference--we are poor creatures--begin to die as soon as we are born--how do you do, Mr. Wade? You look to me like a man who is going to have the jaundice, eye-balls yellow, etc.--any appetite?"
"Not much," said Mr. Wade, unbuttoning his lower vest button, under which were snugly stowed away a pile of buttered toast, three cups of tea, and preserved peaches enough to make a farmer sick--"not much;--a man who works as hard as I do, gets too exhausted to eat when it comes night, or if he does, his food does not digest; how's your family?"
"So, so," muttered Doe, with an expressive shrug; "children are a great care, Mr. Wade, a great care--my John don't take that interest in the drug business that I wish he did; he always has some book or other on hand, reading; I am afraid he never will be good for any thing; your book-worms always go through the world, knocking their heads against facts. I shouldn't wonder, after all my care, if he turned out a poor miserable author; sometimes I think what is to be, will be, and there's no use trying."