Mrs. Mole one day surprised him at a sly tipple in the grounds of the villa, and he knew it to his sorrow.
Suddenly popping round the corner, Chloe emptied the contents of a pail over his luckless head.
"Thar, you teetottler! you banderhoper, you good templar! Take a leetle tiddy drop of water with your rum; makes lubly grog well mixed, yah, yah!"
And then the amiable partner of his joys and sorrows bore off her empty pail, leaving her husband to dry and shiver.
"Philosophy, my dear Mole," said the worthy Isaac to himself, "philosophy is your physic; think of Socrates and be at ease—ugh! It's precious damp—too much water. I must have an extra drop to keep the cold out."
And up went that inexhaustible bottle again.
"Ha! Massa Ikey!" said a terrible voice close at hand, "you want some more water to mix with it, do you?"
Mole clutched his bottle, jumped up, and rushed wildly to the house, with his loving spouse after him with another pail of water.
* * * * *
From that time Mole scarcely dared have a suck at his bottle within half a mile of the house.