He rose and went to the mantelpiece, on which stood a square bottle of hollands and a tumbler. Rapidly filling the tumbler with raw spirit, he drank it as fast as the contractions of his throat would allow. He filled it again, and drank that too. Then he fell insensible upon the bed.
It was a strange scene, and in some ways a coarse one, but yet not without a pathos of its own.
“Ernest,” said Mr. Alston, three weeks later, “you are strong enough to travel now; what do you say to six months or a year among the elephants? The oxen are in first-rate condition, and we ought to get to our ground in six or seven weeks.”
Ernest, who was lying back in a low cane-chair, looking very thin and pale, thought for a moment before he answered:
“All right, I’m your man; only let’s get off soon. I am tired of this place, and want something to think about.”
“You have given up the idea of returning to England?”
“Yes, quite.”
“And what do you say, Jeremy?”
“Where Ernest goes, there will I go also. Besides, to shoot an elephant is the one ambition of my life.”
“Good! then we will consider that settled. We shall want to pick up another eight-bore; but I know of one a fellow wants to sell, a beauty, by Riley. I will begin to make arrangements at once.”