The toddy procured, he
sprang up-stairs, two steps at a time, meeting Monsieur Lajeunesse,
descending with an armful of wet clothes. Bursting into the room to
which the dominie had been led, he found him on a chair drying himself
by detachments. Already his upper man had been rubbed by Pierre, and
clothed with a shirt, vest and velveteen coat from his wardrobe. Now he
was polishing his nether extremities with a towel, preparatory to adding
a pair of gaudy striped trousers to his borrowed gear. Striding up to
him with a ferocious air, the lawyer presented the smoking glass,
exclaiming: "Drink this down, Wilks, or I'll kill you where you sit."
"What is it?" feebly asked the schoolmaster, feeling the weakness of his
kilted position.
"It's toddy, whiskey toddy, Scotch whiskey toddy, the only thing that'll
save your life," cried Coristine, with firmness amounting to
intimidation. The dominie sipped the glass, stirred it with the spoon,
and gradually finished the mixture. Then, laying the tumbler on the
table beside his watch and pocketbook, he finished his rubbing-down, and
encased his legs in Pierre's Sunday trousers.
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