And so the sleeper murmured on. Sometimes
the voice was thick and discordant, sometimes low
and clear and tuneful as a child's. "Never touch
whisky!" he went on, almost harshly. "Never--
never! Drop in the street first. I did. The doctor
will come then, and he knows what you want. Not
whisky.--Medicine; the kind that makes you warm
again--makes you want to live; but don't ever dare
touch whisky. Let other people drink it if they
want it. Sell it to them; they'll get it anyhow; but
don't you touch it! It killed your father, it killed
Tom, and--oh!--mother! mother! mother!" Tears
actually teemed from underneath the sleeper's lids,
and glittered down the pallid and distorted features.
"There's a medicine that's good for you when you
want whisky," he went on.--"When you are weak,
and everybody else is strong--and always when the
flagstones give way beneath your feet, and the long
street undulates and wavers as you walk; why,
that's a sign for you to take that medicine--and
take it quick! Oh, it will warm you till the little
pale blue streaks in your white hands will bulge out
again with tingling blood, and it will start up from
its stagnant pools and leap from vein to vein till it
reaches your being's furthest height and droops and
falls and folds down over icy brow and face like a
soft veil moistened with pure warmth. Ah! it is
so deliriously sweet and restful!"

I heard a moaning in the room below, and then