A bottle was uncorked, and Gray relished the wine very much, along with the other items of his repast.
The confederates drank small quantities of brandy from another bottle, and encouraged Gray by never allowing his glass to be empty to make great progress with the wine.
Glass after glass he drank with a kind of recklessness foreign to his nature, but the liquor was drugged, and the very first draught had made a confusion in the intellect of Jacob Gray. Up to his brain the fumes mounted, awakening a desire still for more, and lighting up his eyes with a strange wild fire.
His two companions now nodded and winked at each other openly, for Jacob Gray was too far gone in intoxication to heed them.
“He’ll do,” remarked Bill in a whisper.
“Of course,” said the other, “you may depend he has something worth while about him.”
“No doubt—no doubt.”
“Gentlemen—gentlemen,” said Gray, pouring himself out another glass, “here’s to—to—our better—ac—acquaintance.”
“Hurrah!” cried Bill, “that’s yer sort.”
“And—confusion to Andrew Britton,” added Gray, dealing the table a heavy blow with his fist. “Confusion, death, and damnation to Andrew Britton.”