“Well but, father, I don’t like to see Jacob drunk,” replied young Tom. “It’s not like him—it’s not worthy of him; as for you or me, it’s nothing at all; but I feel Jacob was never meant to be a toper. I never saw a lad so altered in a short time, and I expect bad will come of it when he leaves us.”
I awoke, as might be supposed, after my first debauch, with a violent headache, but I had also a fever, brought on by my previous anxiety of mind. I rose, dressed, and went on deck, where the snow was nearly a foot deep. It now froze hard, and the river was covered with small pieces of floating ice. I rubbed my burning forehead with the snow, and felt relief. For some time I assisted Tom to heave it overboard, but the fever pressed upon me, and in less than half-an-hour I could no longer stand the exertion. I sat down on the water cask, and pressed my hands to my throbbing temples.
“You are not well, Jacob?” inquired Tom, coming up to me with the shovel in his hand, and glowing with health and exercise.
“I am not, indeed, Tom,” replied I; “feel how hot I am.”
Tom went to his father, who was in the cabin, padding, with extra flannel, his stumps, to defend them from the cold, which always made him suffer much, and then led me into the cabin. It was with much difficulty I could walk; my knees trembled, and my eyesight was defective. Old Tom took my hand as I sank on the locker.
“Do you think that it was taking too much last night?” inquired Tom of his father.
“There’s more here than a gallon of liquor would have brought about,” replied old Tom. “No, no—I see it all. Go to bed again, Jacob.”
They put me into bed, and I was soon in a state of stupor, in which I remained until the lighter had arrived at the Brentford Wharf, and for many days afterwards.