"Then take these pills. Go to bed at ten o'clock and take a pill; if this does not put you to sleep, take another at 10.30. If you are still awake at 11, take the third; then you will certainly sleep."
He went off almost cheerfully.
Next morning he was back, looking brighter. "Well," I said, "you slept last night, all right."
"No," he replied, "I didn't; there's opium in those pills, isn't there?"
"Yes."
"I thought so. Here they are. I made up my mind I'd see this out in my sober senses, without any drugs."
"Good for you," I exclaimed in admiration. "They talk about Indian fortitude. If I had given one of those Indians some sleeping pills, he'd have taken them all and asked for more. But you are the real American stuff, the pluck that can't be licked, and I'll soon have you sound as a dollar."
Then he showed his immense bladder-like hand. "I'll have to make some preparation, and will operate in your shanty at 1 o'clock," I said, thinking how very professional it sounded.
The preparation consisted of whetting my penknife and, much more important, screwing up my nerves. And now I remembered my friend's brandy, put the flask in my pocket, and went to the execution.
He was ready. "Here," I said; "take a good pull at this brandy."