“Have you brought any with you?” inquired he, sharply.
“Yes, here it is,” said I, giving him the pannikin. He smelt it, and raised it to his lips—took about a wine-glass full of it, and then draw his breath.
“This is delightful,” said he; “the best of old rum, I never tasted so good. How big did you say that the cask was?”
I described it as well as I could.
“Indeed, then it must be a whole puncheon—that will last a long while.”
“But do you mean to say that you really like to drink that stuff?” inquired I.
“Do I like to drink it? Yes, it is good for men, but it’s death to little boys. It will kill you. Don’t you get fond of it. Now promise me that you will never drink a drop of it. You must not get fond of it, or some sad accident will happen to you.”
“I don’t think you need fear my drinking it,” replied I. “I have had one taste, as I told you, and it nearly burnt my mouth. I shan’t touch it again.”
“That’s right,” replied Jackson, taking another quantity into his mouth. “You are not old enough for it; by-and-bye, when you are as old as I am, you may drink it, then it will do you good. Now, I’ll go to bed, it’s time for bed. Bring the pannikin after me and put it by my side. Take care you don’t spill any of it.”
Jackson crawled to his bed and I followed him with the pannikin, and put it by his side, as he requested, and I returned to my own resting-place, without, however, having the least inclination to sleep, having slept so long during the day.