"Get me out my clothes."

"You're mad! It'll be your death."

"I don't care: the band's ready. Uncle Issy got his part perfect
las' night, an' that's more'n I ever prayed to hear. Get me out my
clothes an' help me downstairs."

The Doctor was far away. Mrs. Fugler was forced to give in.
Weeping, and with shaking hands, she dressed him and helped him to
the foot of the stairs, where she threw open the parlour door.

"No," he said, "I'm not goin' in there. I'll be steppin' across to
the Town Hall. Gi'e me your arm."

Thomas Tripconey was rehearsing upon the serpent when the door of the
Town Hall opened: and the music he made died away in a wail, as of a
dog whose foot has been trodden on. William Henry Phippin's eldest
son Archelaus cast his triangle down and shrieked "Ghosts, ghosts!"
Uncle Issy cowered behind his bass-viol and put a hand over his eyes.
M. Trinquier spun round to face the intruder, baton in one hand,
cornet in the other.

"Thank 'ee, friends," said Mr. Fugler, dropping into a seat by the
door, and catching breath: "you've got it very suent. 'Tis a
beautiful tune: an' I'm ha'f ashamed to tell 'ee that I bain't
a-goin' to die, this time."

Nor did he.