"You look surprised, but you know I do not."
"Everybody drinks."
"Not all, if I am one of that extensive number."
"Well, my employer sells liquors, my minister drinks his wine, and my friends all drink, except you; and you are a sort of nondescript, a sort of back-action member of human society, a perfect ginger-cake without any ginger in it. Say, got a pledge in your pocket? I have; here it is:" and he pulled forth a slip of paper, on which he had written some half-legible lines.
"See how you like it;—it is what is called the Independent Pledge.
I'll read it.
"'We the undersigned, believing the use of wines and other liquors beneficial to ourselves in general, and the dealers in particular, pledge ourselves to act as we please in all matters of politics and phrenology.'"
The servant, who yet stood at the door waiting orders, burst forth into a loud laugh, as the reading of this was finished, while George, though inwardly sorrowing over the situation of his friend, could not refrain from smiling at his ridiculous appearance and doings. There was a good humor running through the method of his madness, that made him far from being disagreeable.
Mr. Alverton passed to the door, and, motioning the servant aside, entreated her not to bring him wine.
"Well, sir, that be's just as he says," said she, in a loud voice, and in a manner that convinced Mr. Alverton that she cared not as to what might follow.
"Good!" shouted James. "Why, she's my confidential; she's as true to me as a book. Sal, bring up two decanters of that best."