I wanted to make him swallow some of the liquor, but Miss Westonhaugh took the flask from my hands.
"He would not like it.

He never drinks it, you know," she said in a quiet low voice, and pouring some of the contents on her handkerchief, moistened all his brows and face and hair with the powerful alcohol.
"Loosen his belt! pull off his boots, some of you!" cried Mr.Currie Ghyrkins, as he came up breathless.

"Take off his belt--damn it, you know! Dear, dear!" and he got off his _tat_ with all the alacrity he could muster.
Miss Westonhaugh never took her eyes from the face of the prostrate man--pressing the wet handkerchief to his brow, and moistening the palm of the hand she held with brandy.

In a few minutes Isaacs breathed a long heavy breath, and opened his eyes.
"What is the matter ?" he said; then, recollecting himself and trying to move his head--"Oh! I have had a tumble.

Give me some water to drink." There was a sigh of relief from every one present as he spoke, quite naturally, and I held the _lota_ to his lips.