"Bah," said Doane, "the next pretty face will cure you. You'll get no sympathy from us."
"See here, Doane. I bought that bottle of wine as a bribe for sympathy, and I shall engage Salmon here to prosecute you for obtaining it under false pretense."
"This possibility of some mysterious epidemic in New York annoys me," said Doane. "I shall take occasion in tomorrow's paper, to rake the health officers sharply over the coals," and for some cause or other, a sickening shudder passed over his frame.
"Does it trouble you, Doane?" said Wayland, "if so, let's go abroad."
"No, personally I do not fear," said the editor. "I have looked pistols in the eye; have been a war correspondent, with bullets flying about like hail; and, have in addition, faced an angry husband or two. A little disease—bah! There are a hundred doctors who would serve me for the asking. Give me another drink," and as he held the glass aloft, he offered a toast: "Here's to grim disease," he said, "may it kill off ten thousand"—he did not finish; the wine glass fell upon the floor and was cracked in many particles, while Doane tottered, fainting in the arms of Salmon.
