He was standing at the window, not indeed enjoying, as another man
might, the quiet verdure of the scene, and the fragrant air, and all the
mellowed sounds of village life, but lost in a sad and dreadful reverie,
when in bounced little red-faced bustling Dr. Toole--the joke and the
chuckle with which he had just requited the fat old barmaid still
ringing in the passage--'Stay there, sweetheart,' addressed to a dog
squeezing by him, and which screeched out as he kicked it neatly round
the door-post.

'Hey, your most obedient, Sir,' cried the doctor, with a short but grand
bow, affecting surprise, though his chief object in visiting the back
parlour at that moment was precisely to make a personal inspection of
the stranger. 'Pray, don't mind me, Sir,--your--ho! Breakfast ended, eh?
Coffee not so bad, Sir; rather good coffee, I hold it, at the Phoenix.
Cream very choice, Sir?--I don't tell 'em so though (a wink); it might
not improve it, you know. I hope they gave you--eh?--eh? (he peeped into
the cream-ewer, which he turned towards the light, with a whisk). And no
disputing the eggs--forty-eight hens in the poultry yard, and ninety
ducks in Tresham's little garden, next door to Sturk's. They make a
precious noise, I can tell you, when it showers. Sturk threatens to
shoot 'em. He's the artillery surgeon here; and Tom Larkin said, last
night, it's because they only dabble and quack--and two of a trade, you
know--ha! ha! ha! And what a night we had--dark as Erebus--pouring like
pumps, by Jove. I'll remember it, I warrant you. Out on business--a
medical man, you know, can't always choose--and near meeting a bad
accident too. Anything in the paper, eh? ho! I see, Sir, haven't read
it. Well, and what do you think--a queer night for the purpose, eh?
you'll say--we had a funeral in the town last night, Sir--some one from
Dublin. It was Tressel's men came out. The turnpike rogue--just round