"A further evidence, John, of your cool judgment. You are a remarkable man. Most anyone can support a sorrow, but you can restrain a joy, and in that is shown man's completest victory over self. No, I am not quite ready to die. But I believe that if a drop of this liquor, this saint-essence, had been poured into a camphor bottle, I should have dropped dead, that's all, and Peter himself would have complimented me upon the exquisite sensitiveness of my organization. Pour me just about two fingers—or three. That's it. If the commander of the Alabama had taken a few drinks of his grandfather's nectar, the Confederacy would have wanted a blockade runner."
"You don't mean to say that it would have softened his nerve, do you?"
"Oh, no; but his heart, attuned to sweet melody, would have turned from frowning guns to a beautiful nook in some river's bend, there to sing among flowers dripping with honey-dew. I gad, this would make an old man young before it could make him drunk."
The Major brought two pipes and an earthen jar of tobacco; and with the smoke came musings and with the liquor came fanciful conceits. To them it was a pride that they could drink without drunkenness; in moderation was a continuous pleasure. When Gid arose to go, he took an oath that never had he passed so delightful a time. The Major pressed him to stay to supper. "Oh, no, John," he replied; "supper would spoil my spiritual flow. And besides, I am expecting visitors to-night."
He hummed a tune as he cantered down the road; and the Major in his library hummed the same tune as he stretched out his feet to the fire.
As Gid was passing the house of Wash Sanders, the endless invalid came out upon the porch and called him:
"Won't you 'light?"
"No, don't believe I've got time," Gid answered, slacking the pace of his horse. "How are you getting along?"
"Not at all. Got no relish for victuals. Don't eat enough to keep a chicken alive. Can't stand it much longer."
"Want to bet on it?" Gid cried.