"Thar, you teetottler! you banderhoper, you good templar! Take a leetle tiddy drop of water with your rum; makes lubly grog well mixed, yah, yah!"
And then the amiable partner of his joys and sorrows bore off her empty pail, leaving her husband to dry and shiver.
"Philosophy, my dear Mole," said the worthy Isaac to himself, "philosophy is your physic; think of Socrates and be at ease--ugh! It"s precious damp--too much water. I must have an extra drop to keep the cold out."
And up went that inexhaustible bottle again.
"Ha! Ma.s.sa Ikey!" said a terrible voice close at hand, "you want some more water to mix with it, do you?"
Mole clutched his bottle, jumped up, and rushed wildly to the house, with his loving spouse after him with another pail of water.
From that time Mole scarcely dared have a suck at his bottle within half a mile of the house.
One afternoon, having dined early, Mole went for a walk in the suburbs of the town, and selecting a favourable spot, he reclined gracefully and dropped off into a gentle slumber.
How long he slept he never knew until this hour.
All he knew was that he dreamt that he was the hero of some gallant adventures, wherein the Greek brigands fell before his sword like corn before the reaper"s sickle; yea, as the phantom miscreants succ.u.mbed to the onslaught of Don Quixote.
Now, while he slept, a man crawled out of the thicket upon all fours and looked eagerly about him.
The singular part of this incident was that, although the sleeping Mole was within six feet of the spot, he did not perceive him.
Mole was partly hidden by the thickly-grown bushes.
The man dragged himself painfully on; he was badly hurt.
One of his legs was broken, and he carried no less than three pistol bullets in his body; in short, it was little less than marvellous that he was able to crawl at all.
The history of this miserable wretch is soon told.
He had been shot down by the unerring aim of Nabley the detective, and feeling himself badly hurt, he had sought safety in flight while there was yet time.
Dragging his wounded body into the thickly-grown copse, he had lain hidden from sight, baffling the keenest search; and here he had presently lost consciousness.
Loss of blood and anguish had rendered the hapless wretch powerless to help himself, and knowing well what little mercy he had to expect from the Englishmen did they come upon him, had lain there in fear and trembling at every sound until hunger was added to his other torments.
He was nearly blinded with a blow he had received on the face, and now his only hope was to be able to crawl along until he came up with some of his comrades, who would help him to regain their stronghold in the mountains.
"Oh!" he groaned, "a blight upon the hand that struck me down. Oh!"
And the violence of his pains made him give a deep groan.
Mole moved.
Then opened his eyes; and waking, his glance fell upon a ghastly looking object, pale and b.l.o.o.d.y, dragging itself along.
Coming towards him.
Mole gasped.
This was real, he knew at once; there was no doubt about that.
It was one of the Greek brigands, who had seen him asleep, no doubt, and was about to do for him.
Poor Mole.
Cold beads of perspiration stood upon his brow.
A channel of sweat trickled down the small of his back.
His very wig stood up on his scalp with terror.
What should he do?
Alas! it would soon be all over with him.
The ghastly object crawled on.
A minute more and the wretched man would be up with him.
Now, poor old Mole had on occasions been what is called pot-valiant.
He sought his black bottle for Dutch courage; but before he could raise it to his bloodless lips, the wounded man perceived him, and he gave a cry of terror.
"Keep off!" cried Mole, his teeth rattling like a box of dominoes.
The wounded man, half blind as he was and frightened out of what little sense remained to him, took the black bottle for another revolver such as Nabley had carried; and having a wholesome dread of that terrible weapon, he cowered down, hiding his face on the ground.
"Don"t be violent," exclaimed the wretched Mole.
"Mercy, mercy!" implored the brigand.
"Have pity on me," said Mole, in abject terror.
"Do as you please with me," whined the brigand, "only for mercy"s sake don"t fire again at such a poor wretch as I am."
"Think of my helpless condition," said Mole.
"I am done to death," said the brigand.
"I have two wooden legs," gasped Mole.
"Do what you will with me," cried the brigand, in despair, "only give me water--a drop for mercy"s sake."
And he prostrated himself in abject submission before the half dead Mole.