"And cursed be he who first cries, Hold, enough!"
But, being but mortal, after all, his powers were not illimitable. There
was a boundary which even he could not pass, and at the same time lay
his hand on his breast and say, "I'm sober."
That boundary the doctor had now passed by a pretty good way. In plain
language, he was cut, very much cut, as was made sufficiently evident by
various little symptoms,--such as a certain thickness of speech; a
certain diffusion of dull red over the whole countenance, extending to
and including the ears, which seemed to become transparent, like a pair
of thin, flat, red pebbles; a certain look of stupidity and
non-comprehension; and a certain heaviness and lacklustreness of eye,
that gave these organs a strong resemblance to a couple of parboiled
gooseberries.
Sensible of his own condition, sensible that he could hold out no
longer, the doctor now moved, in the most intelligible language which he
could conveniently command, that the diet should be deserted _pro loco
et tempore_.
The motion was unanimously approved of; this unanimity having been
secured by the inability of several of the party, who had been rendered
_hors de combat_, to express dissent.
A general break up, then, was the consequence of the doctor's motion.
Candle in hand, Mr. Walkinshaw rose and accompanied his guests to the
door, towards which they moved in a long irregular file, he leading the
way. In the passage, however, a momentary halt was called. It was to
allow the doctor to don himself in his walking gear. With some
assistance from his host, this was soon accomplished. His hat was stuck
on his head, his martial cloak thrown around him, and his immense
comforter, like a red blanket, coiled around his neck. Thus accoutred,
the doctor and his friends evacuated the premises of their worthy host,
Mr. Walkinshaw.