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Updated: May 8, 2025
He was a man who was afraid of no one; and whose powers nobody could deny. Surely now, even at the last moment, he would find help somehow. It seemed profane to entertain a doubt that he would be able to do it even at the very last. But Cotsdean had a miserable morning; he could do nothing.
May on his table. He was just taking out his medicine from the drawer, and he made a wry face at the note and at the pills together. "Parish?" he said, curtly. "No, sir; it's from Mr. Cotsdean. He came this morning, after you'd gone, and he sent over little Bobby." "That will do." A presentiment of pain stole over him. He gave Betsy a nod of dismissal, and went on with what he was doing.
"What ails you, John?" she said, pathetically; "it wasn't as if you were out last night, nor nothing o' that sort. A man as is sober like you don't ought to turn at his dinner." She was half sorry, and half aggrieved, poor woman, feeling as if some blame of her cookery must be involved. "It's the bile," said poor Cotsdean, with that simplicity of statement which is common in his class.
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