“I’m not drunk – I wish I were. I’m a dead ’un.”
“You are drunk, sir! I tell you what it is, Bob Haines, I’ve had enough of your villainy, and I’ll send you packing. Who showed Mr. Pugh up into my room?”
“Don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t, you tippling fool!”
“I tell you I’m not drunk, I’m dying. Oh! – Oh!”
Leaning against the wall, he clapped his hand to his side, and groaned. I eyed him. He did not look as though he were drunk, and to do Bob Haines justice, although he has the most capacious and constant thirst of any man I ever knew, I never saw him exhibit any signs of having drunk too much. His is a thirst which nothing shall quench.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I’ve got a pain – here! It’s heartburn! All my veins is bursting! So’s my head.” Curious. From his words and his lo
