They nick-named him Maximo Rotundo--and he well deserved the title.

"Where's Timmis?" said he, one day after he had taken a seat, and puffed
and blowed for the space of five minutes--"Cuss them stairs; they'll be
the death o' me."

I ran to summon my master.

"How are you, old fellow?" demanded Mr. Timmis; "tip us your fin."

"Queer!" replied Mr. Crobble,--tapping his breast gently with his fat
fist, and puffing out his cheeks--to indicate that his lungs were
disordered.

"What, bellows to mend?" cried my accomplished patron-- D___ me, never
say die!"

"Just come from Doctor Sprawles: says I must take exercise; no malt
liquor--nothing at breakfast--no lunch--no supper."

"Why, you'll be a skeleton--a transfer from the consolidated to the
reduced in no time," exclaimed Mr. Timmis; and his friend joined in the
laugh.

"I was a-thinking, Timmis--don't you belong to a cricketclub?"

"To be sure."

--"Of joining you."