of their brutal mirth; for surely that mirth is
brutal which springs, not from a heart filled with innocent rejoicing,
but from lips that sputter out the frenzies of a brain on fire with the
stimulants of alcohol. How Frank Oldfield got home he could not tell.
His horse knew his road, and followed it; for, dumb brute as he was, his
senses were not clouded by the unnatural stimulant which had stolen away
the intellects of his _rational_ master.

Darkness had settled down when horse and rider reached the slip-rail at
the entrance of the field before Frank's house. Jacob was there, for he
had heard his master's voice some ten minutes earlier singing snatches
of songs in a wild exaggerated manner. Poor Jacob, he could hardly
believe his ears, as he listened to "Rule Britannia" shouted out by
those lips which, he had imagined, never allowed strong drink to pass
them.

"Is that you, Jacob, my boy?" cried Frank thickly.

"Yes, sir," said Jacob sorrowfully.

"Let down--shlip-rail--th-there's--good lad," added his master.

"It's down," replied the other shortly.

"Tchick--tchick, Roderick," cried Frank, almost tumbling over his
horse's head. At last they reached the house door. Mrs Watson came
out, candle in hand.

"How are you, Mrs Watson?" hiccupped her master. "Lend us a light--all
right; that's poetry, and no mistake--ha, ha, ha! capital, Jacob, my
boy, ain't it?" and he tumbled over one side of his horse, only saving
himself from falling to the ground by catching hold of one of the posts
of the verandah. But we need not follow him further. He slept the
heavy drunkard's sleep that night, and rose the next morning feverish,
sick, thirsty, degraded, humbled, miserable. Poor Jacob's face would
have been a picture, could it have been taken as he looked upon his
master staggering into the house by the light of Mrs Watson's candle--a
very picture it would have been of mingled astonishment, perplexity,
distress, disgust.

"Well," he said to himself moodily, "I thought the old lad had his hands
full in the old country, but it's like he's not content with that; I'd
as soon have thought of the Queen of England taking pick and Davy-lamp
and going down to work in the pit, as of my young mayster coming home
beastly drunk. My word, it's awful; 'tis for sure."

When master and servant met next day each avoided the other's eye.
Frank spoke moodily, and Jacob answered surlily. But it was not in
Frank's nature to continu