“Sir!” said the doctor, in an awful voice, producing a card, and retiring into an angle of the passage, “my name is Slammer, Doctor Slammer, sir⁠—97th Regiment⁠—Chatham Barracks⁠—my card, Sir, my card.” He would have added more, but his indignation choked him.

“Ah!” replied the stranger coolly, “Slammer⁠—much obliged⁠—polite attention⁠—not ill now, Slammer⁠—but when I am⁠—knock you up.”

“You⁠—you’re a shuffler, sir,” gasped the furious doctor, “a poltroon⁠—a coward⁠—a liar⁠—a⁠—a⁠—will nothing induce you to give me your card, sir!”

“Oh! I see,” said the stranger, half aside, “negus too strong here⁠—liberal landlord⁠—very foolish⁠—very⁠—lemonade much better⁠—hot rooms⁠—elderly gentlemen⁠—suffer for it in the morning⁠—cruel⁠—cruel”; and he moved on a step or two.

“You are stopping in this house, Sir,” said the indignant little man; “you are intoxicated now, Sir; you shall hear from me in the morning, sir. I shall find you out, sir; I shall find you out.”