Vell, Sir, here he'd stop, occupyin' the
best place for three hours, and never takin' nothin' arter his
dinner, but sleep, and then he'd go away to a coffee-house a few
streets off, and have a small pot o' coffee and four crumpets,
arter wich he'd walk home to Kensington and go to bed. One
night he wos took very ill; sends for a doctor; doctor comes in a
green fly, with a kind o' Robinson Crusoe set o' steps, as he
could let down wen he got out, and pull up arter him wen he
got in, to perwent the necessity o' the coachman's gettin' down,
and thereby undeceivin' the public by lettin' 'em see that it wos
only a livery coat as he'd got on, and not the trousers to match.
"Wot's the matter?" says the doctor. "Wery ill," says the patient.
"Wot have you been a-eatin' on?" says the doctor. "Roast
weal," says the patient. "Wot's the last thing you dewoured?"
says the doctor. "Crumpets," says the patient. "That's it!" says
the doctor. "I'll send you a box of pills directly, and don't you
never take no more of 'em," he says. "No more o' wot?" says
the patient--"pills?" "No; crumpets," says the doctor. "Wy?"
says the patient, starting up in bed; "I've eat four crumpets,
ev'ry night for fifteen year, on principle.
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