see the Colonel's epistle. On his attempting to let himself in at
Badminton Gardens, he was kidnapped by his father in his night-shirt
and dressing-gown; and was sent out of London on the following
morning by long sea down to Aberdeen, whither he was intrusted to
the charge of a stern uncle. Our friend Tom saw nothing more of his
faithful friend till years had rolled over both their heads.

By the morning post, while Tom was still lying sick with
headache,--for even with Signor Bolivia's wine the pulling of many
corks is apt to be dangerous,--there came the letter from the
Colonel. Bad as Tom was, he felt himself constrained to read it at
once, and learned that neither the Torrid zone or Arctic circle
would require his immediate attendance. He was very sick, and
perhaps, therefore, less high in courage than on the few previous
days. Partly, perhaps, from that cause, but partly, also, from the
Colonel's logic, he did find that his wrath was somewhat abated.
Not but what it was still present to his mind that if two men loved
the same girl as ardently, as desperately, as eternally as he loved
Ayala, the best thing for them would be to be put together like the
Kilkenny cats, till whatever remnant should be left of one might have
its chance with the young lady. He still thought that it would be
well that they should fight to the death, but a glimmering of light
fell upon his mind as to the Colonel's abnegation of all treason in
the matter. "I suppose it wasn't to be expected that he should tell,"
he said to himself. "Perhaps I shouldn't have told in the same place.
But as to forgetting animosity that is out of the question! How is
a man to forget his animosity when two men want to marry the same
girl?"

About three o'clock on that day he dressed himself, and sat waiting
for Faddle to come to him. He knew how anxious his friend would be
to see the Colonel's letter. But Faddle by this time had passed
the Nore, and had added sea-sickness to his other maladies. Faddle
came to him no more, and the tedious hours of the afternoon wore
themselves away in his lodgings till he found his solitude to be
almost more unbearable than his previous misfortunes. At last came
the time when he must go out for his dinner. He did not dare to
attempt the Mountaineers. And as for Bolivia, Bolivia with his corks,
and his eating-house, and his vintages, was abominable to him. About
eight o'clock he slunk into a quiet little house on the north side