"I doubt me," sighed the other.
"Ale!" whispered Diogenes, encouragingly; "warm, sparkling, spicy ale!"
"Hm! hm!" assented the wounded man feebly.
"Easy! easy, my friend," said Diogenes, for his brother philosopher had fallen heavily against him.
"What are we to do?" moaned Pythagoras, in his dulcet tones. "I have a thirst ... and we cannot leave this irresponsible fool to faint here in the fog."
"Hoist him up by the seat of his breeches, then on to my back," retorted Diogenes lightly. "The 'Lame Cow' is not far, and I too have a thirst."
Socrates would have protested. He did not relish the idea of being tossed about like a bale of goods on his friend's back. But he could only protest by word of mouth, to which the others paid no heed; and when he tried to struggle he rolled, dizzy and faint, almost to the ground.
"There's nothing for it," piped Pythagoras with consummate philosophy. "I couldn't carry him if I tried."
Diogenes bent his broad back and rested his hands on his thighs, getting as firm hold of the slippery ground as he could. Socrates for the moment was like a helpless log. There was much groping about in the darkness, a good deal of groaning, and a vast amount of swearing. Socrates had, fortunately, not fainted, and after a little while was able to settle down astride on his friend's back, his arms around the latter's neck, Pythagoras giving vigorous pushes from the rear.
When Diogenes, firmly grasping the wounded man's legs, was at last able to straighten himself out again, and did so to the accompaniment of a mighty groan and still more mighty oath, he found himself confronted by two lanthorns which were held up within a few inches of his nose.