Now this Devil was a Water-Devil of the most pronounced type. His
head-quarters were on the Thames at Barking, where there is a sewage
outfall, and he had lately established a branch-office on the Cam,
where he did a considerable business.

Occasionally, he would run down to Cambridge himself, to consult
with his manager, and on these occasions he would indulge his
playful humour by going out at night and sitting on the pillows of
Undergraduates.

This was one of his nights out, and he had chosen GEORGE GINSLING's
pillow as his seat.

* * * * *

GEORGE woke up with a start. What was this feeling in his throat?
Had he swallowed his blanket, or his cocoa-nut matting? No, they
were still in their respective places. He tore out his tongue and his
tonsils, and examined them. They were on fire. This puzzled him. He
replaced them. As he did so, a shower of red-hot coppers fell from his
mouth on to his feet. The agony was awful. He howled, and danced about
the room. Then he dashed at the whiskey, but the bottle ducked as he
approached, and he failed to tackle it. Poor GEORGE, you see, was a
rowing-man, not a football-player. Then he knew what he wanted. In
his keeping-room were six _carafes_, full of Cambridge water, and a
dozen bottles of Hunyádi Janos. He rushed in, and hurled himself upon
the bottles with all his weight. The crash was dreadful. The foreign
bottles, being poor, frail things, broke at once. He lapped up the
liquid like a thirsty dog. The _carafes_ survived. He crammed them