ur throat," he cried;
"nearly all the wine is there already. I wish they'd choke you. I wish
they were all in the pit of your stomach, and turned to hot burning
coals. What shall I do with you, you cadaverous little jackanapes? The
Lout did well this morning--" (I was the Lout, by your leave) "to--to
liken thee to one, for thou art more monkey than man. But for fear of
staining my cassock, I'd--I'd--"

He advanced towards him with a vengeful air, clenching his fist, as well
as I could see, as he approached. Surely there never was such a comical
character as this Bartholomew Pinchin. 'Tis the bare truth, that, as the
enraged parson came at him, this Gentleman of broad acres drops down
again on his marrowbones, just as I had seen him on the sands in the
morning; and lifting up his little skinny hands towards the ceiling,
begins yelling and bawling out louder than ever.

"Spare my life! spare my life!" he cried, "Take my watch and trinkets.
Take my Gold Medal of the Pearl of Brunswick Club. Take the diamond
solitaire I wear in my great Steenkirk on Sundays. Go to my Bankers, and
draw every penny I've got in the world. Turn me out a naked, naked
Pauper; but oh, Mr. Hodge spare my life. I'm young. I've been a sinner.
I want to give a hundred Pounds to Lady Wackerbarth's charity school. I
want to do every body good. Take my gold, but spare my life. Oh, you
tall young man in the corner there, come and help an English gentleman
out of the hands of a murtherous Chaplain."

"Why, you craven cur, you," puts in the Chaplain, bending over him with
half-poised fist, yet with a kind of half-amusement in his features,
"don't you know that the Tall young Man, as you call him, is the poor
English lad who saved your worthless little carcass from drowning this
morning, and whom you offered to recompense with a Scurvy Groat."

"I'll give him forty pound, I will," blubbered Mr. Pinchin, still on his
knees. "I'll give him fifty pound when my Midsummer rents come in, only
let him rescue me from the jaws of the roaring lion. Oh, my Mamma! my
mamma!"

"Come forward, then, young man," cried the Chaplain, with a smile of
disdain on his good-humoured countenance, "and help this worthy and
courageous gentleman to his legs. Don't be afraid, Squire Barty. _He_
won't murder you."

I advanced in obedience to the summons, and putting a hand under either
armpit of the Squire, helped him on to his feet. Then, at a nod of
approval, I set him in the g