I was faint and sick, true enough; for I had touched nothing save a biscuit and a glass of wine since the morning; but my stomach seemed to loathe food; and though I drew to the table, not wishing to offend the good people, I felt as if to swallow a morsel would choke me. Jones cut up the cold ham and chicken in approved style, whilst his wife busied herself with slicing off thin rounds of bread and butter; but I toyed with my knife and fork, and could not eat. Not so Jones; he took down incredible quantities of all that was before him with the zest of a man who knows he is going to achieve luck's victory. Presently he threw down his tools, and looked hard at me.
"This'll never do, sir; you must eat."
I shook my head and smiled.
"Jane," said he to his wife, "bring out Black Peter; no one ever needed him more than Mr. Kavanagh."
Mrs. Jones opened a cupboard and brought forth a tapery-necked bottle, out of which her husband very carefully poured some liquid into a wineglass, and then as carefully corked it up again.
"Drink this, sir; I've never known it to fail yet."
I lifted the glass to my lips. "Why, it's the primest Curaçoa!" I cried.
"That it may be, sir, for all I know. A poor German, to whom I once rendered a service, sent me two bottles, and I've found it the best cordial I ever tasted. I call it Black Peter--his name was Peter, and he was uncommonly black, to be sure--but I never heard its right name before. Drink it off, sir, and you'll feel a world better presently."
I did, and the effects were as Jones prognosticated. The cold, sick shivering left me, and I was able in a little while to take some food.
"Now, Jane," said the good man to his wife, when he saw I was getting on all right, "shut up your ears; Mr. Kavanagh and I are going to talk business."