“Of course, punch also. A pipe, a cup of coffee, the bath, and a little opium are the luxuries of Turkish existence.”
“To the devil I fling them all four,” cried Dalton, impatiently. “How a man is to be social beside a coffeepot, or up to his neck in hot water, beats me entirely. Faix! I don't envy the Turks!” And he sipped his glass as he spoke, like one who had fallen upon a happier destiny.
“If you 'll mix me a very small glass of that punch, I'd like to propose a toast,” said Foglass.
“There, now, that's spoke like a sensible man; pleasant company and social enjoyment are the greatest enemies to the gout. Make your mind easy, and keep your heart light, and the devil a fear but your knees will get limber, and the swellin' will leave your ankles; but weak punch and tiresome people would undermine the best constitution in the world. Taste that.”
To judge from Mr. Foglass's face, Dalton had at least provided one element of health for his companion.
“It is very strong very strong, indeed!” said he, puckering up his eyes.
“It's the fault of the water hereabouts,” said Dalton. “It doesn't mix right with the spirits; so that one half the first, generally of your liquor tastes stiff, but the bottom is mild as milk.”
The explanation gave such encouragement to Foglass, that he drank away freely, and it was only when he had finished that he remembered his intention of giving a toast.