Instantly Mac feels a little better, for he can groan easier than before.  That is a good sign.  The great thing now is to keep up the temperature and induce perspiration.  The mustard approaches.  The landlady cries from the kitchen to know if he is ready.  Teena retires to get more blankets.  The patient is put to bed, and in a little the mustard plaster is being applied in the place indicated by Quain.  We tell one another what a mercy it is that we have all the requisites in the house. (There is no mustard in the plaster, really—­only a few pepper-corns and a little sand scraped from the geological hammer.) But we say aloud that we hope Mac can bear it for twenty minutes, and we speculate on whether it will bring all the skin with it when it comes off.

This is too much, and the groaning recommences.  The blankets are applied, and in a trice there is no lack of perspiration.  But within three minutes Mac shouts that the abominable plaster is burning right down through him.  It is all pure mustard, he says.  We must have put a live coal in by mistake.  We tell him it will be all right—­in twenty minutes.  It is no use; he is far past advice, and in his insanity he would tear it off and so endanger the success of the treatment.  But this cannot be permitted.  So Almond sits on the plaster to keep it in its place, while I time the twenty minutes with a stop-watch.

At the end of this period of crisis the patient is pronounced past the worst.  But, being in a state of collapse, it becomes necessary to rouse him with a strong stimulant.  So, having sent the ladies to a place of safety, we take off the plaster tenderly, and kindly show Mac the oatmeal and the sand.  We tell him that there was never anything the matter with him at all.  We express a hope that he will find that the castor-oil has done him good.  A little castor-oil is an excellent thing at any time.  And we also advise him, the next time he feels inclined to work off a sell on us or play any more of his pranks, to have a qualified medical man on the premises.  Quain is evidently not good enough.  He makes mistakes.  We show him the passage.

Then we advise him to put on his clothes, and not make a fool of himself by staying in bed in the middle of the day.

Whereupon, somewhat hurriedly, we retreat to our bedrooms; and, locking the doors, sit down to observe with interest the bolts bending and the hinges manfully resisting, while Mac with a poker in either hand flings himself wildly against them.  He says he wants to see us, but we reply that we are engaged.

III

THE COLLEGING OF SIMEON GLEG

  Forth from the place of furrows
    To the Town of the Many Towers;
  Full many a lad from the ploughtail
    Has gone to strive with the hours,

  Leaving the ancient wisdom
    Of tilth and pasturage,
  For the empty honour of striving,
    And the emptier name of sage.