cough mixture, while your brains were wool-gathering after poetry!"

"What is it?" gasped John Briggs.

"Miss Twiddle's black dose;--strong enough to rive the gizard out of
an old cock!"

"It's not!"

"It is!" roared Mark Armsworth from behind as he rushed in, in
shooting-jacket and gaiters, his red face redder with fury, his red
whiskers standing on end with wrath like a tiger's, his left hand upon
his hapless hypogastric region, his right brandishing an empty glass,
which smelt strongly of brandy and water. "It is! And you've given me
the cholera, and spoilt my day's shooting; and if I don't serve you
out for it there's no law in England!"

"And spoilt my day's shooting, too; the last I shall get before I'm
off to Paris! To have a day in Lord Minchampstead's preserves, and to
be baulked of it in this way!"

John Briggs stood as one astonied.

"If I don't serve you out for this!" shouted Mark.

"If I don't serve you out for it! You shall never hear the last of
it!" shouted Tom. "I'll take to writing, after all I'll put it in the
papers. I'll make the name of Briggs the poisoner an abomination in
the land."