“No, thank you, I never drink anything between meals.”
“Ah! my boy, a bad habit; give it up before it is too late. Break it off, my dear Kershaw, and always wet your whistle in the strictest moderation, or you will die young. What says the poet?—
‘He who drinks strong beer, and goes to bed mellow,
Lives as he ought to live, lives as he ought to live,
Lives as he ought to live, and dies a jolly good fellow.’
Byron, I think, is it not? Ha! ha! ha!”
Just then some others came up, and, somewhat to Ernest’s relief, his friend turned the light of his kindly countenance to shine elsewhere, and left him to his thoughts.
At last the little shutter of the post-office was thrown up, and Ernest got his own letters, together with those belonging to Mr. Alston and Jeremy. He turned into the shade
