The lawyer noticed this unguarded saying of Toner’s, but this did not hinder his asking if Madame had hot water, and could mix some real Irish punch for his afflicted friend.  Madame had no Irish, but she had some good Scotcha veesky, which Coristine said would do, only, instead of Irish punch, the mixture would be Scotch toddy.  The toddy procured, he sprang up-stairs, two steps at a time, meeting Monsieur Lajeunesse, descending with an armful of wet clothes.  Bursting into the room to which the dominie had been led, he found him on a chair drying himself by detachments.  Already his upper man had been rubbed by Pierre, and clothed with a shirt, vest and velveteen coat from his wardrobe.  Now he was polishing his nether extremities with a towel, preparatory to adding a pair of gaudy striped trousers to his borrowed gear.  Striding up to him with a ferocious air, the lawyer presented the smoking glass, exclaiming:  “Drink this down, Wilks, or I’ll kill you where you sit.”

“What is it?” feebly asked the schoolmaster, feeling the weakness of his kilted position.

“It’s toddy, whiskey toddy, Scotch whiskey toddy, the only thing that’ll save your life,” cried Coristine, with firmness amounting to intimidation.  The dominie sipped the glass, stirred it with the spoon, and gradually finished the mixture.  Then, laying the tumbler on the table beside his watch and pocketbook, he finished his rubbing-down, and encased his legs in Pierre’s Sunday trousers.  As he turned up the latter, and pulled on a pair of his own socks, he remarked to his friend that he felt better already, and was much obliged to him for the toddy.

“Don’t mention it, my boy, I’m so glad it’s done you good.”

“I fear, Corry, that I was hasty and unjust to you when I came out of the water.”

“Oh well, Wilks darlin’, let us say no more about it, or, like the late Mr. William Basse, I’ll for my past offences weep.  I don’t know what it is exactly you’re like now.  If you had the faytures, you would do for one of the Peoplesh.  You and the grinstun man could hunt in couples.  With a billy cock-hat on the side of your head, you’d make a sporting gent.  Are you feeling pretty well, Wilks, as far as the clothes will let you?”

“Yes; I am all right again, I think.”

“Then I must damp the ardour of ingenuous youth,

     And dash the cup of joy to earth
     Ere it be running o’er.

Wilks, prepare yourself for a blow.”

“Quick, Corry, make no delay—­has the colonel fallen from his horse?  Has his niece accepted Mr. Rawdon?”

“No; my dear friend, but those big fish, one of which you risked your precious life after, are—­suckers.  Ben Toner wanted to fire them into the drink, but I restrained his sucker-cidal hand.  You seem to bear the news with resignation.”