“I thought you were looking queer,” said Harris, kindly. “It’s your head, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps it is,” answered George.
“I have noticed it coming on,” said Harris; “but I didn’t like to say anything to you. You fancy you see things, don’t you?”
“No, no; it isn’t that,” replied George, rather quickly. “I don’t know what it is.”
“I do,” said Harris, solemnly, “and I’ll tell you. It’s this German beer that you are drinking. I have known a case where a man—”
“Don’t tell me about him just now,” said George. “I dare say it’s true, but somehow I don’t feel I want to hear about him.”
“You are not used to it,” said Harris.
“I shall give it up from to-night,” said George. “I think you must be right; it doesn’t seem to agree with me.”
We took him home, and saw him to bed. He was very gentle and quite grateful.
One evening later on, after a long day’s ride, followed by a most satisfactory dinner, we started him on a big cigar, and, removing things from his reach, told him of this stratagem that for his good we had planned.