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In James Maxley all was
ponderous: his head was huge, his mouth, when it fairly opened, revealed
a chasm, and thence issued a voice naturally stentorian by its volume and
native vigour; but, when the owner of this incarnate bassoon had a mind
to say something sagacious, he sank at once from his habitual roar to a
sound scarce above a whisper; a contrast mighty comical to hear, though
on paper _nil._
"Well, what is it Maxley! Rheumatism again?"
"No, that it ain't," bellowed Maxley defiantly.
"What then? Come, look sharp."
"Well, then, doctor, I'll tell you. I'm sore troubled--with--a--mouse."
This malady, announced in the tone of a proclamation, and coming after so
much solemn preparation, amused the party considerably, although
parturient mountains had ere then produced muscipular abortions.
"A mouse!" inquired Sampson disdainfully. "Where? Up your sleeve? Don't
come to me: go t' a sawbones and have your arm cut off. I've seen 'em
mutilate a pashint for as little."
Maxley said it was not up his sleeve, worse luck.
On this Alfred hazarded a conjecture.


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