CHAP. xxm. DICK'S ILLNESS. 405 



midst of them dreadfully ! No doubt they wondered, 

 as Dick the baker never drank whisky. 



" At length I got home and went to bed. I have 

 slept none for nearly a week, but the terrible burning 

 pain has left me. My head is still so giddy that I can 

 hardly go up stairs. " 



This was the beginning of the end. Ill though he 

 was, he continued to go on with his daily work. His 

 legs began to swell, until, as lie said, they were like to 

 burst. And then his breath was so bad that he 

 added, " I am like a broken-winded horse." This was 

 extraordinary to him, as he used to pride himself on his 

 " long wind." 



He slept very little, but when he slept at all, he 

 woke " gasping for breath." Then he got up and sat on 

 a chair, sometimes all night occasionally with his head 

 on a table. He tried hunger and cold water. Indeed, 

 he had no appetite. And yet he did his day's work, 

 though with much difficulty. 



One night he prepared his work for the following 

 morning. He wished to have four hours' sleep, but he 

 soon got up, gasping. He took hold of the bed-post " to 

 blaw." He tried to sleep again. It was of no use. 

 "Nothing but suffering." Then he got up and went 

 down to the kitchen fire, laid his head on a table, and 

 tried to sleep, but he could not. He accordingly got up 

 at one in the morning and began his day's work. 

 " Though want of breath and want of strength weiv luml 

 on me," he says, " I battled away, and ultimately filled 

 my oven with capital bread, and my breathing got a 



