We sought out Podbury’s desolate home, and the Doctor asked bitterly why Providence should have snatched away one whose skill in the matter of rum punch was a household word. I said:
“Try and feel hopeful. We cannot yet be absolutely certain that he has gone.”
"magnificent!"
And then we met Podbury in the Market Place. He was thoroughly alive, and apparently in good health.
“Ah, Doctor!” he exclaimed, “back again. Glad to see you. How are the boys on the ‘Rhine?’ Who’s your friend?”
I was made known to Podbury, and explained how the sight of him had turned our mourning into joy, and how I had come out from England as much to taste his celebrated rum punch as anything else. He appeared gratified at this, and led the way to his house.
We asked him who the Bishop was burying, and he did not even know. He said:
“A nigger, for certain. Can’t be anybody of much account or I should have heard tell of it.”
Then we reached his home, and while he brewed cold punch, we talked to his wife and daughters and some aunts that he had, on his father’s side.