Besides, do you think I have lived six weeks in
the Doctor's house for nothing?'
'I think, sir,' observed Mr. Snitchey, gravely addressing himself
to his partner, 'that of all the scrapes Mr. Warden's horses have
brought him into at one time and another - and they have been
pretty numerous, and pretty expensive, as none know better than
himself, and you, and I - the worst scrape may turn out to be, if
he talks in this way, this having ever been left by one of them at
the Doctor's garden wall, with three broken ribs, a snapped collar-
bone, and the Lord knows how many bruises. We didn't think so much
of it, at the time when we knew he was going on well under the
Doctor's hands and roof; but it looks bad now, sir. Bad? It looks
very bad. Doctor Jeddler too - our client, Mr. Craggs.'
'Mr. Alfred Heathfield too - a sort of client, Mr. Snitchey,' said
Craggs.
'Mr. Michael Warden too, a kind of client,' said the careless
visitor, 'and no bad one either: having played the fool for ten or
twelve years. However, Mr. Michael Warden has sown his wild oats
now - there's their crop, in that box; and he means to repent and
be wise. And in proof of it, Mr. Michael Warden means, if he can,
to marry Marion, the Doctor's lovely daughter, and to carry her
away with him.'
'Really, Mr. Craggs,' Snitchey began.
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