Toole a good deal blown, but full of pluck, was labouring in the rear; Lillyman jumped over the stile, at the river path; and Toole saw an officer who resembled 'poor Puddock,' he thought, a good deal, cross the road, and follow in Lillyman's wake.

The doctor crossed the stile next, and made his best gallop in rear of the plump officer, excited by the distant shouting, and full of horrible curiosity and good-nature.
Nearly opposite Inchicore they fished up an immense dead pig; and Toole said, to his amazement, he found Puddock crying over it, and calling it 'my brother!' And this little scene added another very popular novelty to the doctor's stock of convivial monologues.
Toole, who loved Puddock, hugged him heartily, and when he could get breath, shouted triumphantly after the more advanced party, 'He's found, he's found!' 'Oh, thank Heaven!' cried little Puddock, with upturned eyes; 'but is he really found ?' The doctor almost thought that his perils had affected his intellect.
'Is he found--are _you_ found ?' cried the doctor, resuming that great shake by both hands, which in his momentary puzzle he had suspended.
'I--a--oh, dear!--I don't quite understand--is he lost?
for mercy's sake is Cluffe lost ?' implored Puddock.
'Lost in his bed clothes, maybe,' cried Lillyman, who had joined them.
'But he's not--he's _not_ drowned ?' 'Pish! drowned, indeed! unless he's drowned in the crock of hot water he's clapt his legs into.' 'Where is he--where's Cluffe ?' 'Hang it!--he's in bed, in his lodging, drinking hot punch this half-hour.' 'But are you certain ?' 'Why, I saw him there myself,' answered Lillyman, with an oath.
Poor little Puddock actually clasped his hands, looked up, and poured forth a hearty, almost hysterical, thanksgiving; for he had charged Cluffe's death altogether upon his own soul, and his relief was beyond expression.
In the meantime, the old gentlemen of the club were in a thrilling suspense, and that not altogether disagreeable state of horror in which men chew the cud of bitter fancy over other men's catastrophes.

After about ten minutes in came young Spaight.
'Well,' said the colonel, 'is Cluffe safe or--eh ?' 'Cluffe's safe--only half drowned; but poor Puddock's lost.' 'What!' 'Drowned, I'm afraid.' 'Drowned! who says so ?' repeated the colonel.
'Cluffe--everybody.' 'Why, there it is!' replied the colonel, with a great oath, breaking through all his customary reserve and stiffness, and flinging his cocked-hat on the middle of the table, piteously, 'A fellow that can't swim a yard _will_ go by way of saving a great--a large gentleman, like Captain Cluffe, from drowning, and he's pulled in himself; and so--bless my soul! what's to be done ?' So the colonel broke into a lamentation, and a fury, and a wonder.
'Cluffe and Puddock, the two steadiest officers in the corps! He had a devilish good mind to put Cluffe under arrest--the idiots--Puddock--he was devilish sorry.

There wasn't a more honourable'-- _et cetera_.

In fact, a very angry and pathetic funeral oration, during which, accompanied by Doctor Toole, Lieutenant Puddock, in person, entered; and the colonel stopped short with his eyes and mouth very wide open, and said the colonel very sternly.
'I--I'm glad to see, Sir, you're safe: and--and--I suppose, I shall hear now that _Cluffe's_ drowned ?' and he stamped the emphasis on the floor.
While all this was going on, some of the soldiers had actually got into Dublin.