'Jobling, my dear friend!' said Mr Tigg, 'how are you? Bullamy, wait
outside. Crimple, don't leave us. Jobling, my good fellow, I am glad to
see you.'
'And how are you, Mr Montague, eh?' said the Medical Officer, throwing
himself luxuriously into an easy-chair (they were all easy-chairs in the
board-room), and taking a handsome gold snuff-box from the pocket of his
black satin waistcoat. 'How are you? A little worn with business, eh? If
so, rest. A little feverish from wine, humph? If so, water. Nothing
at all the matter, and quite comfortable? Then take some lunch. A very
wholesome thing at this time of day to strengthen the gastric juices
with lunch, Mr Montague.'
The Medical Officer (he was the same medical officer who had followed
poor old Anthony Chuzzlewit to the grave, and who had attended Mrs
Gamp's patient at the Bull) smiled in saying these words; and casually
added, as he brushed some grains of snuff from his shirt-frill, 'I
always take it myself about this time of day, do you know!'
'Bullamy!' said the Chairman, ringing the little bell.
'Sir!'
'Lunch.
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