"Well,—well—Mike; and did I forget you?"
He poured a little liquor in a saucer and set it down on the floor before the dog, who lapped it up with all the relish of a seasoned toper. Then it put its paws back on Jake's knees, as if asking for more.
"No! Mike. Nothin' doin'. You've had your whack. Too much ain't good for your complexion, old man."
In a sort of dreamy, contemplative mood the dog sat down on its haunches between us.
"What'll you do o' nights if you don't drink? You ain't told me that, George," reiterated Jake, sucking some of the liquor from his drooping moustaches.
"Oh!" I replied, "I'll read, and sometimes I'll sit out and watch the stars and listen to the sea and the wind."
"And what after that?" he queried.
"I can always think, when I have nothing else to do."
"And what after that?" he asked again.
"Nothing, Jake,—nothing. That's all."