“But John Briggs will be John Briggs still, if he went to the moon,” shouted Tom Thurnall, who had just come up to the window.  “I advise you to change that name of yours, Jack, to Sidney, or Percy, or Walker if you like; anything but the illustrious surname of Briggs the poisoner!”

“What do you mean, sir!” thundered John, while the Doctor himself jumped up; for Tom was red with rage.

“What is this, Tom!”

“What’s that?” screamed Tom, bursting, in spite of his passion into roars of laughter.  “What’s that?”—­and he held out a phial “Smell it! taste it!  Oh, if I had but a gallon of it to pour down your throat!  That’s what you brought Mark Armsworth last night, instead of his cough mixture, while your brains were wool-gathering after poetry!”

“What is it?” gasped John Briggs.

“Miss Twiddle’s black dose;—­strong enough to rive the gizard out of an old cock!”

“It’s not!”

“It is!” roared Mark Armsworth from behind as he rushed in, in shooting-jacket and gaiters, his red face redder with fury, his red whiskers standing on end with wrath like a tiger’s, his left hand upon his hapless hypogastric region, his right brandishing an empty glass, which smelt strongly of brandy and water.  “It is!  And you’ve given me the cholera, and spoilt my day’s shooting; and if I don’t serve you out for it there’s no law in England!”

“And spoilt my day’s shooting, too; the last I shall get before I’m off to Paris!  To have a day in Lord Minchampstead’s preserves, and to be baulked of it in this way!”

John Briggs stood as one astonied.

“If I don’t serve you out for this!” shouted Mark.

“If I don’t serve you out for it!  You shall never hear the last of it!” shouted Tom.  “I’ll take to writing, after all I’ll put it in the papers.  I’ll make the name of Briggs the poisoner an abomination in the land.”

John Briggs turned and fled.

“Well!” said Mark, “I must spend my morning at home, I suppose.  So I shall just sit and chat with you, Doctor.”

“And I shall go and play with Molly,” said Tom, and walked off to Armsworth’s garden.

“I don’t care for myself so much,” said Mark; “but I’m sorry the boy’s lost his last day’s shooting.”

“Oh, you will be well enough by noon, and can go then; and as for the boy, it is just as well for him not to grow too fond of sports in which he can never indulge.”

“Never indulge?  Why not?  He vows he’ll go to the Rocky Mountains, and shoot a grizzly bear; and he’ll do it.”

“He has a great deal to do before that, poor fellow; and a great deal to learn.”

“And he’ll learn it.  You’re always down-hearted about the boy, Doctor.”

“I can’t help feeling the parting with him:  and for Paris, too:—­such a seat of temptation.  But it is his own choice; and, after all, he must see temptation, wherever he goes.”

“Bless the man! if a boy means to go to the bad, he’ll go just as easily in Whitbury as in Paris.  Give the lad his head, and never fear; he’ll fall on his legs like a cat, I’ll warrant him, whatever happens.  He’s as steady as old Time, I tell you; there’s a grey head on green shoulders there.”