colonel in his best state of health with much alarm; but, when a fit
of the gout was on--when a foot swathed in flannel, or slippered and
rested on a hassock, announced the anthritic visitation, Petereeine
would hold strong doubts whether, had the choice been allowed, he
should not have preferred entering one of Van Amburgh's dens, to
facing the commander in the dining-room.

Petereeine was nervous--he had overheard his master blowing to the
skies the Reverend George Cantwell, and the red-headed rector, Paul
Macrony. If a parson and a priest were so treated, what chance had he?
and great was his trepidation, accordingly, when he entered the state
chamber, as in duty bound.

"Why the devil did you not answer the bell? You knew well enough, you
incorrible scoundrel! that I wanted you."

Now my father's opening address was not calculated to restore
Petereeine's mental serenity--and to add to his uneasiness, he also
caught sight of that infernal implement, the black-thorn, which, in
treacherous repose, was resting at my father's elbow.

"On with some wood, you vagabond."

The order was obeyed--and Petereeine conveyed a couple of billets
safely from the basket to the grate. The next essay, however, was a
failure--the third log fell--and if the fall were not great, as it
dropped on the fender, it certainly was very noisy. The accident
was harmless--for, according to honest admeasurement, it evaded my
father's foot by a full yard--but, under nervous alarm, he swore,
and, as troopers will swear, that it had descended direct upon his