'I—a—oh, dear!—I don't quite understand—is he lost? for mercy's sake is Cluffe lost?' implored Puddock.
'Lost in his bed clothes, maybe,' cried Lillyman, who had joined them.
'But he's not—he's not drowned?'
'Pish! drowned, indeed! unless he's drowned in the crock of hot water he's clapt his legs into.'
'Where is he—where's Cluffe?'
'Hang it!—he's in bed, in his lodging, drinking hot punch this half-hour.'
'But are you certain?'
'Why, I saw him there myself,' answered Lillyman, with an oath.
Poor little Puddock actually clasped his hands, looked up, and poured forth a hearty, almost hysterical, thanksgiving; for he had charged Cluffe's death altogether upon his own soul, and his relief was beyond expression.
In the meantime, the old gentlemen of the club were in a thrilling suspense, and that not altogether disagreeable state of horror in which men chew the cud of bitter fancy over other men's catastrophes. After about ten minutes in came young Spaight.