"Any bark knocked off?" inquired the accountant, as he took a piece
of glowing charcoal from the stove wherewith to light his pipe. "Try
a whiff, Harry. It's good for such things. Bruises, sores,
contusions, sprains, rheumatic affections of the back and loins,
carbuncles and earache--there's nothing that smoking won't cure; eh,
doctor?"

"Certainly. If applied inwardly, there's nothing so good for
digestion when one doesn't require tonics--Try it, Harry; it will do
you good, I assure you."

"No, thank you," replied Harry; "I'll leave that to you and the
chimney. I don't wish to make a soot-bag of my mouth. But tell me,
doctor, what do you mean to do with that lump of snow there?"

Harry pointed to a mass of snow, of about two feet square, which lay
on the floor beside the door. It had been placed there by the doctor
some time previously.

"Do with it? Have patience, my friend, and you shall see. It is a
little surprise I have in store for Hamilton."

As he spoke, the door opened, and a short, square-built man rushed
into the room, with a pistol in one hand and a bright little bullet
in the other.

"Hollo, skipper!" cried Harry, "what's the row?"

"All right," cried the skipper; "here it is at last, solid as the