Chapter 35

Captain Risby to the Honourable George Molesworth.

_Barford Abby_.

Well, Molesworth,--well--I can go no farther;--yet I _must;--John_, poor faithful _John_, says I _must_;--says he shall be sent back again.--But I have lost the use of my fingers:--my head bobs from side to side like a pendulum. Don't stamp, don't swear: they have a few drops of your cordial more than I intended.--It operates well.--I long to administer a larger potion.--Could you see how I am shifted--now here--now there--by the torrent of joy, that like a deluge almost drives reason before it;--I say, could you see me, you would not wonder at the few unconnected lines of

Yours,

Risby.