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"You've nothing to blame the drink for; the drink's right enough. It's yourself; it's your own fault. You haven't any conduct in your drink like other folk. You must sit sotting at the `George' till you can't tell your hand from your foot; and then you must come home and blackguard me and the childer, and turn the house out of the windows.
He thinks good drink's bad because bad has come of it to him not that he ever took a drop too much, mind yer but bad has come of it to him, and I think good drink's good because nothing but good has come of it to me. And we've agreed to differ. Ain't we, Silas?" "If every man were as moderate as you, and I am sure as Mr. Savelli, I should have nothing to say against it.
He war de biggest guzzler I eber seed in my life. Why, dat man he drunk up ebery thing he could lay his han's on. Sometimes he would go 'roun' tryin' to borrer money from pore cullud folks. 'Twas rale drefful de way dat pore feller did frow hisself away. But drink did it all. I tell you, Bobby, dat drink's a drefful thing wen it gits de upper han' ob you. You'd better steer clar ob it."
"Mother," said Betty, mournfully, "can you really talk in that fashion to fayther, when you know how the drink's been the cause of all the misery in our house, till it's driven our poor Sammul away to crouch him down on other folk's hearth-stones in foreign parts? I should have thought we might all have learnt a lesson by this time."
Your drink's given him a good sleep, at any rate." Young Mr. Cashell could not catch Mr. Shaynor's face, which was half turned to the advertisement. I stoked the stove anew, for the room was growing cold, and lighted another pastille. Mr. Shaynor in his chair, never moving, looked through and over me with eyes as wide and lustreless as those of a dead hare. "Poole's late," said young Mr.
How it was done I don't know, but what I do know is, none of 'em has touched licker for five days. They've all got red jerseys, an' I hear as old Dick preaches a hexcellent sermon. He's red-hot on it, and t'others follow 'im like sheep." "The drink's got to his brain," said the skipper sagely, after due reflection. "Well, I don't mind, so long as they behave theirselves."
The drink's been my curse and my ruin; it's done me and mine nothing but harm; and I can see what doing without it has been to you and yours. Give me the pen; I'll sign." The signature was made, and then, while both men knelt, Thomas Bradly poured out his heart in prayer to God for a blessing on his poor friend, and that he might truly give his heart and life to the Lord.
Whitey's nerves were pretty steady, as you know, but after about four hours of this, Little got him so fidgety that he thought he would fall off the horse. Finally he thought Little had changed the subject, and breathed a sigh of relief. "Drink's a awful evil," Little announced solemnly.
"Near the mid-hour of the night the rush of a horse's feet was heard, and the sound of a rider leaping from its back, and a heavy knock came to the door, accompanied by a voice saying, 'The cummer drink's hot, and the knave bairn is expected at Laird Laurie's to-night; sae mount, goodwife, and come.
I couldn't face them for shame." "Oh, Thomas," cried Ned, "what a slave the drink's made of you: mustn't! can't! durstn't! what! ain't you a man? haven't you got a will of your own?" "No, Ned, that's just it; I haven't a will of my own: the old lad's got it off me long since." "Ay, but, Thomas, you must get it back again," exclaimed Brierley's wife; "you must go to Jesus, and he'll help you."
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