“Dead or drugged, Doc? Pshaw, you're away off. You can see for yourself I am not dead, and I can vow I wasn't drugged.”
“Then you've been intoxicated, by George; and as president of the Blank-ville Gun Club I'll fine you——”
“Quail, as I live!”
“One—two—three; three brace and a half, Doc, and beauties, too! It does my heart good to handle the darlings. Doc, if Scrib has been full forty times to-day, he has more than atoned for the lapsi with this glorious bag. Whoop! Ya, ha! There'll be quail on toast for the whole party.”
By the time the Judge's jubilation had ceased I had about regained my normal condition and we were ready to make tracks homeward.
The clock strikes the midnight hour as I re-enter my own home. My wife sits rocking the cradle, in which lies our darling Ted. She turns a weary-looking, tear-stained face to me.
“Its all right, dear,” I gently remark, “I'm quite safe, as you see.”
“I haven't the slightest doubt of it, sir,” she returns, icily. “It's not of you I've been thinking, but of baby.”
“Baby,” I repeat inquiringly. “What is the matter with him?”
“There is nothing the matter with him, but there is no telling what might have been. And all owing to your foolish indulgence of his fancy for bottles.”