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Updated: June 18, 2025
'Shall I bring him here tomorrow, and make him stay over Sunday? Sunday is his bad day, and no wonder. If there were a licensed poison-shop in London, they'd do a very fair trade on Sundays. 'There are the public-houses, said Alma. 'Yes; but Morphew doesn't incline that way. The fellow has delicate instincts, and suffers all the more; so the world is made.
Soon Brock and two hands were on their way to the floating "poison-shop," as one of the men had named it. He was affectionately received there, and, ere long, returned to the White Cloud with a supply of fire-water. "You're good at a bargain, Brock," said his master, with an approving nod, tossing off a glass of the demon that held him as if in chains of steel chains that no man could break.
Another man came in, and Peter recognised the Australian Ferrars, whom he had met before. He introduced Pennell and called for another martini. "So you frequent this poison-shop, do you?" said Ferrars. "Not much," laughed Peter, "but it's convenient." "It is, and it's a good sign when a man like you wants a drink. I'd sooner listen to your sermons any day than some chaps' I know."
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