"
"And of which you have left none, I'll be bound," answered Archer,
laughing; "my best Latour, Frank, which the old infidel calls trash."
"It's all below, every bottle of it," answered Tom: "I wouldn't use such
rot-gut stuff, no, not for vinegar. 'Taint half so good as that red
sherry you had up here oncet; that was poor weak stuff, too, but it did
well to make milk punch of; it did well instead of milk."
"Now, Frank," said Archer, "you won't believe me, that I know; but it's
true, all the same. A year ago, this autumn, I brought up five gallons
of exceedingly stout, rather fiery, young brown sherry--draught wine,
you know!--and what did Tom do here, but mix it, half and half, with
brandy, nutmeg, and sugar, and drink it for milk punch!"
"I did so, by the eternal," replied Tom, bolting a huge lump of beef, in
order to enable himself to answer--"I did so, and good milk punch it
made, too, but it was too weak! Come, Mr. Forester, we harn't drinked
yet, and I'm kind o' gittin dry!"
And now the mirth waxed fast and furious--the champagne speedily was
finished, the supper things cleared off, hot water and Starke's
Ferintosh succeeded, cheroots were lighted, we drew closer in about the
fire, and, during the circulation of two tumblers--for to this did Harry
limit us, having the prospect of unsteady hands and aching heads before
him for the morrow--never did I hear more genuine and real humor, than
went round our merry trio.
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