"Yes."
"I wonder what he has here?" said Mr. Jones, taking hold of the demijohn. "It feels heavy."
The cork was unhesitatingly removed, and the mouth of the vessel brought in contact with the smelling organ of Mr. Jones.
"Wine, as I live!" fell from his lips. "Bring me a glass."
"O! no, Mr. Jones. I wouldn't touch his wine," said Mrs. Jones.
"Bring me a glass. Do you think I'm going to let a gallon of wine pass my way without exacting toll? No—no! Bring me a glass."
The glass, a half-pint tumbler, was produced, and nearly filled with the execrable stuff—as guiltless of grape juice as a dyer's vat—which was poured down the throat of Mr. Jones.
"Pretty fair wine, that; only a little rough," said Mr. Jones, smacking his lips.
"It's a shame!" remarked Mrs. Jones, warmly, "for you to do so."
"I only took toll," said the husband, laughing. "No harm in that,
I'm sure."