Pell, Toole was ceremonious and deliberate, and oppressively polite.
On the other hand, when he had been shut up with brusque, half-savage,
energetic Doctor Rogerson, Tom was laconic, decisive, and insupportably
ill-bred, till, as we have said, the mirage melted away, and he
gradually acquiesced in his identity. Then, little by little, the
irrepressible gossip, jocularity, and ballad minstrelsy were heard
again, his little eyes danced, and his waggish smiles glowed once more,
ruddy as a setting sun, through the nectarian vapours of the punch-bowl.
The ghosts of Pell and Rogerson fled to their cold dismal shades, and
little Tom Toole was his old self again for a month to come.
'Your most obedient, gentlemen--your most obedient,' said Toole, bowing
and taking their hands graciously in the hall--'a darkish evening,
gentlemen.'
'And how does your patient, doctor?' enquired Major O'Neil.
The doctor closed his eyes, and shook his head slowly, with a gentle
shrug.
'He's in a bad case, major. There's little to be said, and that little,
Sir, not told in a moment,' answered Toole, and took snuff.
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