Can you swim ?' 'No, Thir.' 'An' how the dickens did you get there ?' 'I'd rather hear, Sir, how I'm to get away, if you please,' replied Puddock, loftily.
'Are you bare-legged ?' shouted the man.
'No, Sir,' answered the little officer, rather shocked.
'An' you're there wid shoes on your feet.
'Of course, Sir,' answered Puddock.
'Chuck them into the water this instant minute,' roared the man.
'Why, there are valuable buckles, Sir,' remonstrated Puddock.
'Do you mane to say you'd rather be dhrownded in yer buckles than alive in yer stockin' feet ?' he replied.
There were some cross expostulations, but eventually the fellow came out to Puddock.

Perhaps the feat was not quite so perilous as he represented; but it certainly was not a pleasant one.

Puddock had a rude and crazy sort of banister to cling to, and a rugged and slippery footing; but slowly and painfully, from one post to another, he made his way, and at last jumped on the solid, though not dry land, his life and his buckles safe.
'I'll give you a guinea in the morning, if you come to my quarterth, Mr.
-- -- Thir,' and, without waiting a second, away he ran by the footpath, and across the bridge, right into the Phoenix, and burst into the club-room.

There were assembled old Arthur Slowe, Tom Trimmer, from Lucan, old Trumble, Jack Collop, Colonel Stafford, and half-a-dozen more members, including some of the officers--O'Flaherty among the number, a little 'flashy with liquor' as the phrase then was.
Puddock stood in the wide opened door, with the handle in his hand.

He was dishevelled, soused with water, bespattered with mud, his round face very pale, and he fixed a wild stare on the company.