"The Death-bed of Washington." A gloomy room at best; now, with the
shutters of one window still bowed, and the faint twitter of the
canaries, and that one chair at the head of the table, it was very
melancholy.

"Sit down!" said Benjamin Wright. Still in his moth-eaten high hat, he
shuffled about to fetch from the sideboard a fat decanter with a
silver chain and label around its neck, and two tumblers.

"No," said Dr. Lavendar; "I'm obliged to you."

"What, temperance?" snarled the other.

"Well, I hope so," Dr. Lavendar said, "but not a teetotaler, if that's
what you mean. Only I don't happen to want any whiskey at five o'clock
in the afternoon."

At which his host swore softly, and lifting the decanter poured out
two good fingers.

"Mr. Wright," said Dr. Lavendar, "I will be obliged if you will not
swear in my presence."

"You needn't talk to me," cried Benjamin Wright, "I despise this
damned profanity there is about; besides, I am always scrupulously
particular in my language before females and parsons. Well;--I wanted
to see you, because that jack-donkey, Sam, my grandson, is causing me
some anxiety."

"Why, Sam is a good boy," Dr. Lavendar protested.