“We all did our best to forget the unpleasant interruption of a few minutes back, and talked away with a sort of over-eagerness. But Hawke never spoke; there he sat, turning his glazed, filmy look from one to the other, as though in vain trying to catch up something of what went forward. He looked so ill--so fearfully ill, all the while, that it seemed a shame to sit carousing there around him, and so I whispered to Collins; but Towers overheard me, and said, “'All wrong. _You_ don't know what tough material he is made of. This is the very thing to rally him,--eh, Godfrey?' cried he, louder. 'I 'm telling these fellows that you 'll be all the better for coming down amongst us, and that when I've made you a brew of that milk-punch you are so fond of--' “'It won't burn my throat, will it?' whined out the sick man. “'Burn your throat! not a bit of it; but warm your blood up, give energy to your heart, and brace your nerves, so that before the bowl is finished you 'll sing us “Tom Hall;” or, better still, “That rainy day I met her,”-- “That rainy day I met her, When she tripped along the street, And, with petticoat half lifted, Showed a dainty pair of feet.” “'How does it go?' said he, trying to catch the tune. “A ghastly grin--an expression more horrible than I ever saw on a human face before--was Hawke's recognition of this appeal to him, and, beating his fingers feebly on the table, he seemed trying to recall the air. “'I can't stand this any longer,' whispered Wake to me; 'the man is dying!' “'Confound you for a fool!' said Towers, angrily. 'You 'll see what a change an hour will make in him. I 've got the receipt for that milk- punch up in my room. I 'll go and fetch it' And with this he arose, and hastily left the room. “'Where's Tom?' said the sick man, with a look of painful eagerness. 'Where is he?' “'He's gone for the receipt of the milk-punch; he's going to make a brew for you!' said I. “'But I won't take it. I 'll taste nothing more,' said he, with a marked emphasis. 'I 'll take nothing but what Loo gives me,' muttered he, below his breath. And we all exchanged significant looks with each other. “'This will never do,' murmured Wake, in a low voice. 'Say something-- tell a story--but let us keep moving.' “And Collins began some narrative of his early experiences on the Turf. The story, like all such, was the old burden of knave and dupe,--the man who trusted and the man who cheated. None of us paid much attention to the details, but drank away at our wine, and sent the decanters briskly round, when suddenly, at the mention of a horse being found dead in his stall on the morning he was to have run, Hawke broke in with 'Nobbled! Just like me!'