“Wood-house!” cried I, “which way to it? Run for God’s sake, and fetch something to pry open the door⁠—the axe!⁠—the axe! he’s had a stroke; depend upon it!”⁠—and so saying I was unmethodically rushing upstairs again empty-handed, when Mrs. Hussey interposed the mustard-pot and vinegar-cruet, and the entire castor of her countenance.

“What’s the matter with you, young man?”

“Get the axe! For God’s sake, run for the doctor, someone, while I pry it open!”

“Look here,” said the landlady, quickly putting down the vinegar-cruet, so as to have one hand free; “look here; are you talking about prying open any of my doors?”⁠—and with that she seized my arm. “What’s the matter with you? What’s the matter with you, shipmate?”