Mr. Trillo stayed in the hall, playing a march on the harp, to inspirit the rest to sally out. The water-loving Mr. Philpot had diluted himself with so much wine as to be quite _hors de combat_. Mr. Toogood, intending to equip himself in purely defensive armour, contrived to slip a ponderous coat of mail over his shoulders, which pinioned his arms to his sides; and in this condition, like a chicken trussed for roasting, he was thrown down behind a pillar in the first rush of the sortie. Mr. Crotchet seized the occurrence as a pretext for staying with him, and passed the whole time of the action in picking him out of his shell.
“Phew!” said the divine, returning; “an inglorious victory; but it deserves a devil and a bowl of punch.”
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—No, sir. No more of the twelfth century for me.
_Mr. Chainmail_.—Nay, Doctor. The twelfth century has backed you well. Its manners and habits, its community of kind feelings between master and man, are the true remedy for these ebullitions.
_Mr. Toogood_.—Something like it: improved by my diagram: arts for arms.
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—No wassail-bowl for me. Give me an unsophisticated bowl of punch, which belongs to that blissful middle period, after the Jacquerie was down, and before the march of mind was up. But, see, who is floundering in the water?
Proceeding to the edge of the moat, they fished up Mr. Firedamp, who had missed his way back, and tumbled in. He was drawn out, exclaiming, “that he had taken his last dose of malaria in this world.”
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Tut, man; dry clothes, a turkey’s leg and rump, well devilled, and a quart of strong punch, will set all to rights.
“Wood embers,” said Mr. Firedamp, when he had been accommodated with a change of clothes, “there is no antidote to malaria like the smoke of wood embers; pine embers.” And he placed himself, with his mouth open, close by the fire.
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Punch, sir, punch: there is no antidote like punch.
_Mr. Chainmail_.—Well, Doctor, you shall be indulged. But I shall have my wassail-bowl, nevertheless.
An immense bowl of spiced wine, with roasted apples hissing on its surface, was borne into the hall by four men, followed by an empty bowl of the same dimensions, with all the materials of arrack punch, for the divine’s especial brewage. He accinged himself to the task with his usual heroism, and having finished it to his entire satisfaction, reminded his host to order in the devil.