“Well,” said I, “we are in a pretty dilemma here.  We owe our landlady fifteen shillings.”

“For which she will lay an embargo on our little effects—­three black wigs and a low-comedy pair of breeches—­this must be prevented.”

“But how?” I inquired.

“How? never mind; but order dinner directly.”

“Dinner!” said I; “don’t awaken painful recollections.”

“Go and do as I tell you,” he replied.  “Order dinner—­beef-steak and oyster-sauce.”

“Beef-steak!  Are you mad”—­but before I could finish the sentence, he had put on his hat and disappeared.

“Who knows?” thought I, after he was gone, “he’s a devilish clever fellow, something may turn up:”  so I ordered the beef-steaks.  In less than an hour, my friend returned with exultation in his looks.

“I have done it!” said he, slapping me on the back; “we shall have plenty of money to-morrow.”

I begged he would explain himself.

“Briefly then,” said he, “I have been to the billiard-room, and every other lounging-place about town, where I circulated, in the most mysterious manner, a report that a celebrated German doctor and philosopher, who had discovered the secret of resuscitating the dead, had arrived in Loughrea.”

“How ridiculous!” I said.

“Don’t be in a hurry.  This philosopher,” he added, “is about to give positive proof that he can perform what he professes, and it is his intention to go into the churchyard to-night, and resuscitate a few of those who have not been buried more than a twelvemonth.”

“Well.” said I, “what does all this nonsense come to?”

“That you must play the philosopher in the churchyard.”

“Me!”

“Certainly, you’re the very figure for the part.”

After some persuasion, and some further development of his plan, I consented to wrap myself in an ample stage-cloak, and gliding into the churchyard, I waited in the porch according to the directions I had received from Ned, until near midnight, when I issued forth, and proceeded to examine the different tombs attentively.  I was bending over one, which, by the inscription, I perceived had been erected by “an affectionate and disconsolate wife, to the memory of her beloved husband,” when I was startled at hearing a rustling noise, and, on looking round, to see a stout-looking woman standing beside me.

“Doctor,” said she, addressing me, “I know what you’re about here.”

I shook my head solemnly.

“This is my poor late husband’s tomb.”

“I know it,” I answered.  “I mean to exercise my art upon him first.  He shall be restored to your arms this very night.”

The widow gave a faint scream—­“I’m sure, doctor,” said she, “I’m greatly obliged to you.  Peter was the best of husbands—­but he has now been dead six months—­and—­I am—­married again.”

“Humph!” said I, “the meeting will be rather awkward, but you may induce your second husband to resign.”