"Well, I suppose I may smoke then?"

"Certainly; you shall have one of my best regalias."

Mr. Mole took the weed, and puffed away rather sulkily.

They had got about eight miles from Ma.r.s.eilles when suddenly the engine slackened speed, and the train drew up at a little roadside station.

"What does this mean?" said Harvey. "We ought not to stop here."

"This is our first stopping place, however, so I'll trouble you for my flask, according to promise," said Mole, with a beaming countenance.

Harkaway handed it over and was settling back again when he heard a police official asking--

"Where is the gentleman who was run over at Ma.r.s.eilles?"

"Here," said Harkaway.

The gendarme ran to the spot, and to his intense surprise saw the victim of the accident in the act of taking a hearty drink from his brandy flask while his left hand held a lighted cigar.

"What do you want?" demanded Mole.

"The officials at Ma.r.s.eilles, unable to stop the train, telegraphed to me to see that you had proper medical attendance."

"Ha, ha, ha! look here, old boy; I always carry my own physic. Taste it."

The officer took the flask, and finding that the smell was familiar, applied it to his lips.

"The fact is," said Harkaway, "the gentleman was wearing wooden legs, and they only were damaged."

"Indeed; then you think that you are able to proceed on your journey, sir?"

"Yes, if you will leave me some of my medicine."

The gendarme bowed, handed back the flask, and the train rolled away.

CHAPTER CVII.

A DUEL.

"Paris at last," exclaimed Harvey.

"That's a good job, for I am tired of sitting, and want to stretch my legs; don't you, Mr. Mole?" said young Jack.

"Don't be ridiculous, Jack," replied Mr. Mole.

Harkaway senior, who had been looking out of the window, drew in his head and said--

"Well, Mr. Mole, you are in a nice fix."

"How?"

"I don't see any----"

"Any what?"

"Any cabs."

"The ----"

"Don't swear."

"My dear Mr. Harkaway, now if you were without legs, would not you swear?"

"Can't say, having the proper number of pins."

"You'll have to walk," said Harvey. "There's not a cab in the station."

"But how can I walk?"

"Don't you remember the hero in the ballad of Chevy Chase?"

"Who was he?"

"The song says Witherington, but we will call him Mole."

"'For Mole, indeed, my heart is woe, As one in doleful dumps; For when his feet were cut away, He walked upon his stumps.'"

By this time the train had stopped, and all the party got out, except Mole.

As Harkaway had said, there was no vehicle in the station nor outside of it, so Mr. Mole was obliged to remain till his friends could hit upon some plan for removing him.

A porter was the first to make a suggestion.

"An artificial limb maker lives opposite, monsieur," said he.

"Ah!"

"If I carried monsieur over, he might have some--ah--subst.i.tutes fitted on."

"A capital idea!" exclaimed Harvey; "over with him." And before Mole could remonstrate, he was hoisted to the porter's shoulders, and trotted across the street.

Great was the joy of the Parisian _gamins_ at having such a sight provided for their amus.e.m.e.nt.

Mole, however, bravely bore the chaff, half of which he did not understand.