"And so say all of us," chimed in Denis Walker and Arthur Floyd.
Up went the clouds of smoke in fanciful, weird wreathes to the white ceiling; up went the glasses with the "nectar of the gods!" to the healthy lips of these four friends, tried and true, again and again, until the huge, lanky-legged clock in the hall chaunted in deep monotone the hour of twelve.
The four rose as one man, and joined hands across the table.
"A happy new year," they said, in one and the same breath, and they ushered the poor, innocent yearling in to the tune of "For he's a jolly good fellow—for he's a jolly good fellow, and so say all of us."
"Stop," said Patrick, "what's that?"
The dining-room was but a pace from the hall door, and Patrick had heard quite distinctly a thud, as of something heavy falling down.
In a second he was out into the darkness, and nearly stumbled over an inert mass of humanity. It was a man—or the remains of one.
"He looks bad, Phil," said Patrick, "run for Dr. Naughten while I put him on the sofa." Phil threw his warm Inverness cape about him and seized his hat and was off in a trice; meanwhile the three men, left with the unconscious fourth, laid their burden down upon the sofa, loosened his neckerchief and collar, but no sign of life was there.
"Drink," said Arthur, "that cursed drink." The other men shook their heads in silent acquiescence. It seemed an age before the doctor, who lived only a few doors off, came upon the scene, not in the best of humors either, for he, too, had been making the night merry after the fashion of these four friends.
The doctor felt his pulse. "I'm no use here," said he. "The fellow's been dead this half-hour."