“Here,” cried the scientist, pouring something out of a phial, and handing it to him, “drink that quick.”
“I feel double the individual,” cried Sandie, brightly, as soon as he had swallowed the draught.
“Come,” said Rory, “come, monsieur, I want to feel double the individual, too.”
“No, no, sir,” said De Vere, smiling, “an Irishman no want etherism; you are already—pardon me—too ethereal.”
Sandie was gazing skywards.
“It is the moon,”—he was saying—“I ken her horn,
She’s blinkin’ in the lift sae hie;
She smiles, the jade! to wile us hame,
But, ’deed, I doubt, she’ll wait a wee.”
“Happy thought!” cried Rory; “let us go to the moon.”
“No,” laughed the doctor; “nobody ever got that length yet.”
“Oh, you forget, Mr Surgeon,” said Rory,—“you forget entirely all about Danny O’Rourke.”
“Tell us, then, Rory.”