been about mid-day when Rattray reappeared, ruddy, spurred, and splashed with mud; a comfort to sick eyes, I declare, in spite of all. He brought me two little vials, put one on the chimney-piece, poured the other into my tumbler, and added a little water.
“There, old fellow,” said he; “swallow that, and if you don’t get some sleep the chemist who made it up is the greatest liar unhung.”
“What is it?’ I asked, the glass in my hand, and my eyes on those of my companion.
“I don’t know,” said he.
I open it, and there are the green-baize compartments, one with a box of percussion caps, still apparently full, another that could not contain many more wadded-bullets, and a third with a powder-horn which can never have been much lighter. Within the lid is a label bearing the makers’ names; the gentlemen