All the neighbours were there--merry little Dr. Toole in his grandest
wig and gold-headed cane, with three dogs at his heels,--he seldom
appeared without this sort of train--sometimes three--sometimes
five--sometimes as many as seven--and his hearty voice was heard bawling
at them by name, as he sauntered through the town of a morning, and
theirs occasionally in short screeches, responsive to the touch of his
cane. Now it was, 'Fairy, you savage, let that pig alone!' a yell and a
scuffle--'Juno, drop it, you slut'--or 'Caesar, you blackguard, where are
you going?'
'Look at Sturk there, with his lordship,' said Toole, to the fair
Magnolia, with a wink and a nod, and a sneering grin. 'Good natured dog
that--ha! ha! You'll find he'll oust Nutter at last, and get the agency;
that's what he's driving at--always undermining somebody.' Doctor Sturk
and Lord Castlemallard were talking apart on the high ground, and the
artillery surgeon was pointing with his cane at distant objects. 'I'll
lay you fifty he's picking holes in Nutter's management this moment.'
I'm afraid there was some truth in the theory, and Toole--though he did
not remember to mention it--had an instinctive notion that Sturk had an
eye upon the civil practice of the neighbourhood, and was meditating a
retirement from the army, and a serious invasion of his domain.
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