“I—I—didn't know it,” ses Bill, shaking all over. “I'll knock it—off a bit, and—thank you—for—w-w-warning me. G-G-Good-by.”
“You'll knock it off altogether,” ses Silas Winch, in a awful voice. “You're not to touch another drop of beer, wine, or spirits as long as you live. D'ye hear me?”
“Not—not as medicine?” ses Bill, holding the clothes up a bit so as to be more distinct.
“Not as anything,” ses Silas; “not even over Christmas pudding. Raise your right arm above your 'ead and swear by the ghost of pore Silas Winch, as is laying at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, that you won't touch another drop.”
Bill Burtenshaw put 'is arm up and swore it.
Then 'e took 'is arm in agin and lay there wondering wot was going to 'appen next.
“If you ever break your oath by on'y so much as a teaspoonful,” ses Silas, “you'll see me agin, and the second time you see me you'll die as if struck by lightning. No man can see me twice and live.”
Bill broke out in a cold perspiration all over. “You'll be careful, won't you, Silas?” he ses. “You'll remember you 'ave seen me once, I mean?”
“And there's another thing afore I go,” ses Silas. “I've left a widder, and if she don't get 'elp from some one she'll starve.”
“Pore thing,” ses Bill. “Pore thing.”