’Why, why curse it, it’s not, ‘tisn’t——­’

’There was a long pause, and O’Flaherty stared a very frightened and hideous stare at the proprietor of the red quarto.

‘Not what, Thir?’ demanded Puddock, briskly, but plainly disconcerted.

‘Not anything—­anything bad—­or, or—­there’s no use in purtendin’, Puddock,’ he resumed, turning quite yellow.  ’I see, Sir, I see by your looks, it’s what you think, I’m poisoned!’

‘I—­I—­do not, Thir, think you’re poisoned,’ he replied indignantly, but with some flurry; ’that is, there’s a great deal in it that could not pothibly do you harm—­there’s only one ingredient, yes—­or, or, yes, perhapth three, but thertainly no more, that I don’t quite know about, depend upon it, ’tis nothing—­a—­nothing—­a—­seriouthly—­a—­But why, my dear Thir, why on earth did you violate the thimple directions—­why did you thwallow a particle of it?’

‘Och, why did I let it into my mouth at all—­the divil go with it!’ retorted poor O’Flaherty; ‘an’ wasn’t I the born eediot to put them devil’s dumplins inside my mouth? but I did not know what I was doin’—­no more I didn’t.’

‘I hope your head’th better,’ said Puddock, vindicating by that dignified enquiry the character of his recipe.

‘Auch! my head be smathered, what the puck do I care about it?’ O’Flaherty broke out.  ’Ah, why the devil, Puddock, do you keep them ould women’s charrums and devilments about you?—­you’ll be the death of some one yet, so you will.’

‘It’s a recipe, Sir,’ replied Puddock, with the same dignity ’from which my great uncle, General Neagle, derived frequent benefit.’

‘And here I am,’ says O’Flaherty, vehemently; ’and you don’t know whether I’m poisoned or no!’

At this moment he saw Dr. Sturk passing by, and drummed violently at the window.  The doctor was impressed by the summons; for however queer the apparition, it was plain he was desperately in earnest.

‘Let’s see the recipe,’ said Sturk, drily; ’you think you’re poisoned—­I know you do;’ poor O’Flaherty had shrunk from disclosing the extent of his apprehensions, and only beat about the bush; ’and if you be, I lay you fifty, I can’t save you, nor all the doctors in Dublin—­show me the recipe.’

Puddock put it before him, and Sturk looked at the back of the volume with a leisurely disdain, but finding no title there, returned to the recipe.  They both stared on his face, without breathing, while he conned it over.  When he came about half-way, he whistled; and when he arrived at the end, he frowned hard; and squeezed his lips together till the red disappeared altogether, and he looked again at the back of the book, and then turned it round, once more reading the last line over with a severe expression.

‘And so you actually swallowed this—­this devil’s dose, Sir, did you?’ demanded Sturk.

’I—­I believe he did, some of it; but I warned him, I did, upon my honour!  Now, tell him, did I not warn you, my dear lieutenant, not to thwallow,’ interposed little Puddock, who began to grow confoundedly agitated; but Sturk, who rather liked shocking and frightening people, and had a knack of making bad worse, and an alacrity in waxing savage without adequate cause, silenced him with—­