"Dead?" echoed the friends. "Dead?"
"Yes."
"But," said Patrick, "we heard the fall only a few minutes ago."
"Likely enough," said the doctor, "he had got as far as your door, propped himself up against the corner, and then went completely off into his last long sleep."
"Impossible!" they all exclaimed. "A man to die standing up!"
"Possible," retorted the doctor, "and in this case, as you say you heard the fall, most certain. Good evening, gentlemen, there is nothing more for me to do," and the doctor hurried away.
So this poor wretch of a fellow-man had been "seeing the old year out," but the old year was made of tougher stuff than he, and had seen him out.
They went for the police, who came with the stretcher (ah! what tales that rough canvas bed could tell, if it had the gift of tongue!), the body was taken away, and the four friends sat around the table again, but they raised the glass no more to their lips, though the punch-bowl was steaming still—their eyes turned fearfully to the sofa where death so lately lay in state, and for a few minutes a dreadful silence reigned.
"Oh! that awful drink, what harm it is working. I'll not taste another drop these six months." This from Patrick Hallahan.
"Nor I," said Phil.