“Well now!” said Meekin, with asperity, “I don't agree with you. Everybody seems to be against that poor fellow—Captain Frere tried to make me think that his letters contained a hidden meaning, but I don't believe they did. He seems to me to be truly penitent for his offences—a misguided, but not a hypocritical man, if my knowledge of human nature goes for anything.”
“I hope he is,” said North. “I wouldn't trust him.”
“Oh! there's no fear of him,” said Burgess cheerily; “if he grows uproarious, we'll soon give him a touch of the cat.”
“I suppose severity is necessary,” returned Meekin; “though to my ears a flogging sounds a little distasteful. It is a brutal punishment.”
“It's a punishment for brutes,” said Burgess, and laughed, pleased with the nearest approach to an epigram he ever made in his life.
Here attention was called by the strange behaviour of Mr. North. He had risen, and, without apology, flung wide the window, as though he gasped for air. “Hullo, North! what's the matter?”
“Nothing,” said North, recovering himself with an effort. “A spasm. I have these attacks at times.” “Have some brandy,” said Burgess.
“No, no, it will pass. No, I say. Well, if you insist.” And seizing the tumbler offered to him, he half-filled it with raw spirit, and swallowed the fiery draught at a gulp.
The Reverend Meekin eyed his clerical brother with horror. The Reverend Meekin was not accustomed to clergymen who wore black neckties, smoked clay pipes, chewed tobacco, and drank neat brandy out of tumblers.
“Ha!” said North, looking wildly round upon them. “That's better.”