a water,' 'The Queen of Hungary's' ditto,
'surfeit waters,' and finally, that he was in search of, to wit, 'My
great Aunt Bell's recipe for purging the head' (good against melancholy
or the headache). You are not to suppose that the volume was slovenly or
in anywise unworthy of a gentleman and officer of those days. It was
bound in red and gold, had two handsome silver-gilt clasps and red
edges, the writing being exquisitely straight and legible, and without a
single blot.

'I have them all except--two--_three_,' murmured the thoughtful Puddock
when he had read over the list of ingredients. These, however, he got
from Toole, close at hand, and with a little silver grater and a pretty
little agate pocket pestle and mortar--an heirloom derived from poor
Aunt Bell--he made a wonderful powder; 'nutmeg and ginger, cinnamon and
cloves,' as the song says, and every other stinging product of nature
and chemistry which the author of this famous family 'purge for the
head' could bring to remembrance; and certainly it _was_ potent. With
this the cartridges were loaded, the ends tied up, and O'Flaherty,
placed behind a table on which stood a basin, commenced the serious
operation, under Puddock's directions, by introducing a bag at each side
of his mouth, which as a man of honour, he was bound to retain there
until Puddock had had his morning's tete-a-tete with the barber.

Those who please to consult old domestic receipt-books of the last
century, will find the whole process very exactly described therein.

'Be the powers, Sorr, that was the stuff!' said O'Flaherty, discussing
the composition afterwards, with an awful shake of his head; 'my chops
wor blazing before you could count twenty.'

It was martyrdom; but anything was better than the incapacity which
threatened, and certainly, by the end of five minutes, his head was
something better. In this satisfactory condition--Jerome being in the
back garden brushing his regimentals, and preparing his other
properties--he suddenly heard voices close to the door, and gracious
powers! one was certainly Magnolia's.

'That born devil, Juddy Carrol,' blazed forth. O'Flaherty, afterwards,
'pushed open the door; it served me right for not being in my bed-room,
and the door locked--though who'd a thought there was such a cruel
eediot on airth--bad luck to her--as to show a leedy into a gentleman,
with scarcely the half of his clothes on, and undhergoin' a soart iv an
operation, I may say