At the breakfast, too, which, owing to the dimensions of the Dearloves’ cottage, was perforce select, Peter again shone.  In proposing the health of Mr. and Mrs. Fogo, he said—­

“On an occasion like the present et becomes us not to repine.  These things es sent us for our good” (here he looked doubtfully at the cake), “an’ wan man’s meat es t’other’s p’ison, which I hopes” (severely) “you knawed wi’out my tellin’ ‘ee; an’ I shudn’ wonder ef Paul an’ me was to draw lots wan o’ these fine days as to which o’ us shud take the pledge—­I means, the plunge—­an’ go an’ scarify hissel’ ’pon the high menial altar.”

Immense excitement at this point prevailed among certain elderly spinsters present.

“That was a joke,” explained the speaker, with a sudden and stony solemnity, “an’ I hopes ’twill be tuk in the sperrit in which ’twas meant.  An’ wi’ that I gi’es Tamsin’s health an’ that o’ P. Fogo, Esquire, to whom she has been this day made man an’ wife; an’ bless them an’ their dear offspring!”

At this point he was sitting down when Paul leant across and whispered in his ear.

“You are right, Paul,” said the orator—­“or offsprings.  Bless their dear offspring or offsprings—­as the case may be.”

And with this he resumed his seat amid frantic applause.

The Twins alone escorted the bride and bridegroom to the railway-station; and with the accident that there befell, the chronicle of Mr. Fogo’s adventures may for the present close.  While the brothers saw Tamsin to her carriage, and with their white waistcoats and gigantic favours planted awe in the breast of the travelling public, the bridegroom dived into the Booking Office to take the tickets for London; for Mr. and Mrs. Fogo were to spend some days in the Metropolis before crossing the Channel.

Now it so happened that in the Booking Office there hung a gorgeous advertisement of one of the principal Steamship Companies, representing a painted ship, the S.S. Popocatepetl, upon a painted ocean, with a deckload of passengers in all varieties of national and fancy costume.  Mr. Fogo, as his eye rested on this company, halted and looked more closely.

“That Highlander,” he said, “is out of drawing.”

Purse in hand, he paused before the advertisement and slowly yielded to its spell.  His eyes grew fixed and glassy:  tickets, train, and waiting bride had passed out of his mind.  Mr. Fogo’s fit was upon him.

Meanwhile the Twins, unconscious of the flight of time, and untutored in the ways of locomotives, were loading their sister with parting advice.

“This ’ere,” remarked Peter, pulling a bulky parcel from his pocket, “contains a variety o’ useful articles for travellin’, which I’ve a-reckoned up durin’ the past week an’ meant to hand ‘ee at the las’ moment.  There’s a wax candle an’ a box o’ lucifers for the tunnels, an’ a roll o’ diach’lum plaister in case o’ injury, an’ ’Foxe’s Book o’ Martyrs,’ ef you shud tire o’ lookin’ out at the windey, an’ Thorley’s-Food-for-Cattle Almanack for the las’ thirteen year all done up separate, an’ addressed to ‘Mr. P. Dearlove, juxty Troy.’  ’Bout this last, I wants Mr. Fogo to post wan at ivery stashun where you stops, so’s we may knaw you’ve got there safe.”