"A little better, I thank you. The doctor has taken it all out of his stomach. Will you walk up?"
Mr. Smith ascended to the chamber where lay Mr. Jones, looking as white as a sheet. The doctor was still by his side.
"Ah! my friend," said the sick man, in a feeble voice, as Mr. Smith took his hand, "that antimonial wine of yours has nearly been the death of me."
"What antimonial wine?" inquired Mr. Smith, not understanding his friend.
"The wine you left here in the gallon demijohn."
"That wasn't antimonial wine!"
"It was not?" fell from the lips of both Mr. and Mrs. Jones.
"Why, no! It was only wine that I had bought for the purpose of making antimonial wine."
Mr. Jones rose up in bed.
"Not antimonial wine?"