"Before they were amputated, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"Why, Mrs. Mole," and he would draw himself up to his full height, "you
have been surely indulging in strong waters."

"No, sar; no, Ikey Mole, not dis gal, sar. You lose your legs continual
and your head too, sar, with strong waters--sperrits, sar, sperrits."

Poor Mole, he was no match for her, and could only turn for consolation
to where he had ever thought to drown dull care.

The bottle.

Mrs. Mole one day surprised him at a sly tipple in the grounds of the
villa, and he knew it to his sorrow.

Suddenly popping round the corner, Chloe emptied the contents of a pail
over his luckless head.

"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,