“Stop!” By a superhuman effort, through some agency I never could account for, I managed to utter that one word in a sort of half expostulatory, half authoritative tone, or rather groan. [Illustration: 0148] It broke the spell. My eyes opened. My arms regained power. Instinctively I reached out a hand and drew my canine guardian toward me, placing a cheek against his cold, moist nose. That was enough for Charlie. The faithful brute grew wild with joy. He barked, whined, jumped, capered, pirouetted after his own stump, and, in a word, did the most tremendous despite to all my careful training in the line of reserved and dignified demeanor. I rose to a sitting posture and finally drew myself up on my feet, gazing around me in a bewildered, uncertain sort of way. “Hello, boys, what's the matter?” I managed to articulate. “Hello, and what's the matter yourself?” replied the Doc. “Yes, that's precisely what we came out here to know,” put in the Judge. “I guess--I think--yes, let me see!--I believe I--I--must have dropped off in a little doze, boys! Very kind of you to look me up. Only--say, you never surely meant to shoot my dog? I'd have haunted both of you to your respective dying days if you had, supposing I was a cold corpse instead of a man taking a little nap.” “Taking a little nap! Hear him! I should rather say you were. But, look here, Scrib, do your little naps always mean two or three hours of the soundest sleep a man ever slept who wasn't dead or drugged?” “Dead or drugged, Doc? Pshaw, you're away off. You can see for yourself I am not dead, and I can vow I wasn't drugged.” “Then you've been intoxicated, by George; and as president of the Blank-ville Gun Club I'll fine you----” “Quail, as I live!” “One--two--three; three brace and a half, Doc, and beauties, too! It does my heart good to handle the darlings. Doc, if Scrib has been full forty times to-day, he has more than atoned for the _lapsi_ with this glorious bag. Whoop! Ya, ha! There'll be quail on toast for the whole party.” By the time the Judge's jubilation had ceased I had about regained my normal condition and we were ready to make tracks homeward. The clock strikes the midnight hour as I re-enter my own home. My wife sits rocking the cradle, in which lies our darling Ted. She turns a weary-looking, tear-stained face to me. “Its all right, dear,” I gently remark, “I'm quite safe, as you see.” “I haven't the slightest doubt of it, sir,” she returns, icily. “It's not of you I've been thinking, but of baby.” “Baby,” I repeat inquiringly. “What is the matter with him?” “There is nothing the matter with him, but there is no telling what might have been. And all owing to your foolish indulgence of his fancy for bottles.”