"Yes—but how?" replied he, shaking his head mournfully.
"Why, with a syringe, sir," said I; "which will, if empty, of course draw out the gas, when inserted into your mouth."
"My dear Peter, you have saved my life: be quick, though, or I shall go up, right through the ceiling."
Fortunately, there was an instrument of that description in the house. I applied it to his mouth, drew up the piston, and then ejected the air, and re-applied it. In two minutes he pronounced himself better, and I left the old nurse hard at work, and my father very considerably pacified. I returned to my sister, to whom I recounted what had passed; but it was no source of mirth to us, although, had it happened to an indifferent person, I might have been amused. The idea of leaving her, as I must soon do—having only a fortnight's leave—to be worried by my father's unfortunate malady, was very distressing. But we entered into a long conversation, in which I recounted the adventures that had taken place since I had left her, and for the time forgot our source of annoyance and regret. For three days my father insisted upon the old woman pumping the gas out of his body; after that, he again fell into one of his sleeps, which lasted nearly thirty hours.
When he arose, I went again to see him. It was eight o'clock in the evening, and I entered with a candle. "Take it away—quick, take it away; put it out carefully."
"Why, what's the matter, sir?"
"Don't come near me, if you love me; don't come near me. Put it out, I say—put it out."
I obeyed his orders, and then asked him the reason. "Reason!" said he, now that we were in the dark; "can't you see?"
"No, father; I can see nothing in the dark."
"Well, then, Peter, I'm a magazine, full of gunpowder; the least spark in the world, and I am blown up. Consider the danger. You surely would not be the destruction of your father, Peter?" and the poor old gentleman burst into tears, and wept like a child.