"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! Massa 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 succumbed 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.