‘Come along,’ cried Lillyman to Toole, and they started afresh.  They heard the shouting by the river bank, and followed it by the path round the King’s House, passing the Phoenix; and old Colonel Stafford, who was gouty, and no runner, standing with a stern and anxious visage at the door, along with old Trumble, Slowe, and Trimmer, and some of the maids and drawers in the rear, all in consternation.

‘Bring me the news,’ screamed the colonel, as they passed.

Lillyman was the better runner.  Toole a good deal blown, but full of pluck, was labouring in the rear; Lillyman jumped over the stile, at the river path; and Toole saw an officer who resembled ‘poor Puddock,’ he thought, a good deal, cross the road, and follow in Lillyman’s wake.  The doctor crossed the stile next, and made his best gallop in rear of the plump officer, excited by the distant shouting, and full of horrible curiosity and good-nature.

Nearly opposite Inchicore they fished up an immense dead pig; and Toole said, to his amazement, he found Puddock crying over it, and calling it ‘my brother!’ And this little scene added another very popular novelty to the doctor’s stock of convivial monologues.

Toole, who loved Puddock, hugged him heartily, and when he could get breath, shouted triumphantly after the more advanced party, ’He’s found, he’s found!’

‘Oh, thank Heaven!’ cried little Puddock, with upturned eyes; ’but is he really found?’

The doctor almost thought that his perils had affected his intellect.

‘Is he found—­are you found?’ cried the doctor, resuming that great shake by both hands, which in his momentary puzzle he had suspended.

’I—­a—­oh, dear!—­I don’t quite understand—­is he lost? for mercy’s sake is Cluffe lost?’ implored Puddock.

‘Lost in his bed clothes, maybe,’ cried Lillyman, who had joined them.

‘But he’s not—­he’s not drowned?’

’Pish! drowned, indeed! unless he’s drowned in the crock of hot water he’s clapt his legs into.’

‘Where is he—­where’s Cluffe?’

’Hang it!—­he’s in bed, in his lodging, drinking hot punch this half-hour.’

‘But are you certain?’

‘Why, I saw him there myself,’ answered Lillyman, with an oath.

Poor little Puddock actually clasped his hands, looked up, and poured forth a hearty, almost hysterical, thanksgiving; for he had charged Cluffe’s death altogether upon his own soul, and his relief was beyond expression.

In the meantime, the old gentlemen of the club were in a thrilling suspense, and that not altogether disagreeable state of horror in which men chew the cud of bitter fancy over other men’s catastrophes.  After about ten minutes in came young Spaight.

‘Well,’ said the colonel, ‘is Cluffe safe or—­eh?’

‘Cluffe’s safe—­only half drowned; but poor Puddock’s lost.’

‘What!’

‘Drowned, I’m afraid.’