He is just about this time sewing up Briggs's coat-sleeves, putting copperas into his water jug, and powdered galls on his towel, and making various other little returns for this morning's favour." "I dislike practical jokes." "So do I; especially when they come in the form of a black dose.

Sit down, old boy, and we'll have a game at cribbage." In a few minutes Tom came in--"Here's a good riddance.

The poisoner has fabricated his pilgrim's staff, to speak scientifically, and perambulated his calcareous strata." "What!" "Cut his stick, and walked his chalks; and is off to London." "Poor boy," said the Doctor, much distressed.
"Don't cry, daddy; you can't bring him back again.

He's been gone these four hours.

I went to his room, at Bolus's, about a little business, and saw at once that he had packed up, and carried off all he could.