"The Wastrel seemed to take it all right. He had been frozen in time at age forty-two. His hat was placed upon one pole, his wig on another. "Go to the pump, Nab," he said, when this was done, "and fill a pail with water. On this side stood the instruments with which the latter piece of pleasantry had been effected,—namely, a bucket filled with paint and a brush: on that was erected a trophy, consisting of a watchman's rattle, a laced hat, with the crown knocked out, and its place supplied by a lantern, a campaign wig saturated with punch, a torn steen-kirk and ruffles, some halfdozen staves, and a broken sword. One day she awoke and he was cavorting about underneath the covers. They laughed and talked and stared about them. "And had you been the worst scoundrel unhung, I'd have seen to it that you had the same care, the same chance.
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