At last the minister broke the oppressive silence. In that slow, deep, and funereal tone for which he was famous, he repeated again and again just one word—"Lost! Lost! Lost!" and then stopped. This was a favourite method of his, which he often used at the beginning of his sermon, and which at once riveted and solemnised his congregation. And on this occasion it sounded in the Deacon's ears like the voice of Doom. Then after an awful pause, the minister continued:
"This is terrible, Mr Roper, terrible for me, and still more terrible for you. I came here yesterday to dine and stay the night with my friend, Mr Virtue, the artist. We were sitting at supper, when intelligence arrived that a gentleman of respectable appearance had dropped down by the roadside, and that his friend who was with him was unable to take him any farther. He was brought in, and you may imagine what was my horror when I found that the gentleman was my friend and chief elder, and that he was in a plight which I can't trust myself to describe. Now, as I must bring this matter before the Kirk Session—"
"Oh! Mr Patullo, you surely will never do that."
"I must. I would be quite unworthy of my place if I did not do it. If it were not your own case, you yourself would advise that. You remember how severe you were upon poor Willie Flett, who was up before us last month. But before I make up my mind definitely, I shall listen to any explanation you have to give."
The Deacon, fortunately for himself, had long cultivated the faculty of putting the best face on every matter, and this faculty now served him in good stead. So, shaking Mr Patullo's hand, and wiping a tear from his eye, he said, "Thank you, sir, you are acting as my best friend, as you have always done. I will, therefore, tell you frankly the whole matter. Sam Slater and I were keeping our Handsel Monday at Kingswell. I am not an abstainer, as you know, and have always used the gifts of Providence without abusing them. At dinner I had my share of the punch, but no more, and when we set out I was perfectly well. But, unfortunately, at a half-way house where we stopped for refreshment, the whisky was bad. As soon as I had taken it, I felt ill, and said so to Sam. It was some time before it acted; but at length it made me quite sick and helpless. Mr Patullo! it was poison and not drink that put me into such a sad condition! I was really ill, not intoxicated."
Mr Patullo hummed and hawed, and said, "Would you object to me hearing what Mr Sam Slater has got to say?"
"Nothing would gratify me more," said the Deacon, although he did not look as if he were gratified. The fact is, that he was not sure on what line the whimsical Sam might get.
When Sam came in and was asked point blank by the minister, "How do you account for the state in which Mr Roper was last night?" it seemed as if he were going to put his foot into it. Blushing and hesitating he said, "Well! really I could not undertake to say." But when the minister asked him if they got anything at the roadside public-house which disagreed with them, he saw what cue he was to take.
"Ah! yes," he said, brightening up, "I remember now—the bad whisky. The Deacon, after drinking it, said that it was atrocious. It had no bad effect at first; but when we were in Mr Piper's house, I noticed that the Deacon turned as white as a sheet, and when we came out into the open air, he became so sick that he had to sit down by the wayside. Yes, it must have been the adulterated drink that poisoned him."
"But how was it that you were not poisoned?" asked the minister.