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self; I've got a cask to roll him in, to fetch the water out of him, or else we'll hang him by the heels for a few minutes.

Mrs. Thompson. But has nobody sent for the doctor, I wonder?

Mrs. Jones. It isn't of any use, the dear child is gone; but I believe Pat Maloney did run for Doctor Williams. Not that I will ever forgive Pat for enticing him on the ice; he's murdered him, he has. Mrs. Thompson. And here he comes, riding as if for his life.

Dr. Williams. A case of drowning, is it? My good woman, why have not you undressed the poor boy? Cut his clothes off quickly, and put him between hot blankets, quick!

Mrs. Smith. Beg pardon, sir, for interrupting, but we were going to roll him in a barrel, it's said to be a very fine thing.

Dr. Williams. It would be certain death, if that's what you want. There, get him into bed, and two of you warm your hands and flour them, and rub his body and legs gently. Raise his head a little, and then lift up his arms slowly and gently above his head, and then down again, to try to get him to breathe.

Mrs. Smith. But, sir, the water that has drowned him? how is that to be got out?

Dr. Williams. Nonsense; swallowing water don't drown, it's the want of air in the lungs. Because the water irritates the top of the windpipe, and it shuts, no air can get in. Now just move the arms again. I fancy I saw the chest move.

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Mrs. Jones. Oh, pray, sir, pray do persevere, sir, and do all you can to save my poor dear boy! I know, sir, we do owe you a long bill as it is, but father and I will work day and night, we will, and live on bread and water to pay it, if you do but bring him to. Oh, my poor child! speak to me, do, or I shall leave my senses, I shall.

Dr. Williams. My good woman, I am not thinking about my bill; but you must not go on so. If he can hear you, and I'm not sure he cannot, nothing is so bad for him as to be agitated like that. Now suppose you go into the kitchen to your baby. Mrs. Jones. But I am his mother, sir; nobody can do for a child like his own mother. It's so natural to

him to have me about him.

Dr. Williams. But you must keep from kissing and crying over him so. I do think his chest moves really, thank God!

Mrs. Jones. Oh, thank God indeed, sir! and you too, sir! but you'll let me stop with my dying child, sir? Oh, here's father! Oh, father, how could you let this precious child go on the ice? You've been and murdered him, you have, you and Pat Maloney, between you.

Mr. Jones. Hush, mother, you are out of your senses. I've never seen the poor boy since yesterday, nor Pat either. I was on Willings's farm.

Dr. Williams. I fear, Jones, that your poor wife has been too much upset to be fit to stop with Ben, who must be very quietly and carefully attended to. Nurse Wilson is at Willings's, but Mrs. Willings is doing very well, and would, I am sure, spare her for

a night. If he is left to her, and she follows my orders till to-morrow, I believe that, please God, all is safe.

Mrs. Jones. Oh, father, you will never let my precious child be took from me, when he's only just come out of the water! I am his mother; nobody can do for a child like its own mother.

Mr. Jones. Hush, my dear; we must be ruled by the doctor, or, if he dies, how we shall reflect on ourselves. Depend on it, he knows. If you think well, sir, I'll step to Willings.

Dr. Williams. Do, I'll stay till you bring back a nurse. Stop, though! your poor wife has had no dinner, and, nursing her baby and all, she's quite upset. Here's a shilling; get a little bit of bacon and a couple of eggs, and get her to make you some tea by the time you come back. I will try whether your boy can't swallow a spoonful or two.

Mrs. Jones. Wouldn't a drop of gin be more reviving, sir?

Dr. Williams. I fear it would choke him at once; pray don't think of it.

Dr. Williams. Well, my boy, how are you? all right again?

Ben. Yes, sir, thank you. I don't feel any the

worse.

Dr. Williams. If not the worse, I hope you are the better, and that you have learnt what comes of disobedience.

Mother. Beg pardon, sir, for speaking a word, but

Ben, poor boy, didn't go against his father's word; he couldn't find him.

Dr. Williams. But didn't you tell him that he was not to go without his father's leave? Speak the truth, Ben; wasn't that it?

Mother. Oh, sir, he wouldn't have gone if his father told him not; but you see, so unlucky, he was at Willings's, so I didn't so much blame the poor child. You see, sir, I've only just got him back from a watery grave, and it goes against a mother's heart to speak sharp to him.

Dr. Williams. I hope, Ben, you see where the truth lies, and that you will be a better and a wiser boy all your life, having been so near death. I am certain that you felt how wrong you had been when the ice gave way. Now it was not the ice giving way that made it so wrong, it was the disobedience itself. Don't forget it, Ben.

Ben. No, sir, I won't.

Tim Larkins. Oh, Will, my father's dog has had some puppies, and father says I may have the fun of drowning them. Come along, and we'll have a lark.

Will Jones. How are you going to do it? I don't think I ever saw puppies drowned.

Tim Larkins. Oh, it's great fun. I throw them in, and they try to get to land, and I stone them to make them go back, and they don't know which they like —to be stoned or drowned.

Will Jones. Well, I don't know. Isn't it rather cruel ?

Tim Larkins. You are just like a girl; girls are always so spooney about beasts. I don't see why we mayn't do as we like with them; besides father says they must be drowned, he won't keep them.

Will Jones. All right; they must; but one needn't torment them first.

Tim Larkins. Oh, it's such jolly good fun to see them struggling so. But if you want to polish them off, you may hold them down with a pitchfork, only you don't see them fight for their lives. But there's Ben going along, he'll lend us a hand.

Ben. What game's up now? What are you going to do with those puppies ?

Tim. Drown them. Come along and help to see them bobbing up and down like corks, and the mother looking on and howling. Oh, how they do howl!

Ben. Well, Tim, you know I was as good as drowned last week, and nothing can make me lend a hand to put any living thing under water. It's dreadful.

Tim. Nonsense, beasts ain't like us; nobody but girls mind about them.

Ben. Then I'm a girl, I suppose, for I tell you I couldn't do it; I should dream of those puppies, and fancy I was drowning with them.

Tim. What would you have? Are we to be overrun with vermin, because everybody is too softhearted to kill them?

Ben. Oh no, they must be killed; but is there any need to be so long over it?

Tim. But we should lose our fun.

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