"Shall we wager a barrel of punch?"
The postmaster reflected an instant, not so much on the punch as on the doctor's suspecting him of cowardice.
"Done! I will go there on Friday. And you can carry the punch home in a boat, if you see anything go wrong with me."
The day came and the postmaster ate his dinner with the doctor, before he took his way, as agreed, to the prayer-house. He had told no one of his intention, partly because he feared that the preacher might aim at him, partly because he did not wish to get the reputation of being a pietist. After dinner he borrowed a box of snuff to keep himself awake, in spite of the doctor's assurance that he would not have any chance of sleeping. And so he went.
The doctor walked about his garden waiting for the result of the experiment to which many a stronger man than the postmaster had succumbed. He waited for an hour and a half; he waited two hours; he waited three. Then at last he saw the congregation coming out—a sign that it was over. But the postmaster did not appear. The doctor became uneasy. Another hour passed, and at last he saw his friend coming out of the wood. He came with a somewhat artificial liveliness and there was something forced in the springiness of his gait. When he saw the doctor, he made a slight wriggling movement with his legs, and shrugged his shoulders as though his clothes were too tight for him.
"Well?" asked the doctor. "It was tedious, wasn't it?"
"Yes," was the only answer.
They went down to the pavilion and took their seats opposite each other, although the postmaster was shy of showing his face, into which a new expression had come.
"Give me a pinch of snuff," said the doctor slyly.
The postmaster drew out the snuff-box, which had been untouched.