"No," he replied, "I didn't; there's opium in those pills, isn't
there?"
"Yes."
"I thought so. Here they are. I made up my mind I'd see this out
in my sober senses, without any drugs."
"Good for you," I exclaimed in admiration. "They talk about Indian
fortitude. If I had given one of those Indians some sleeping pills,
he'd have taken them all and asked for more. But you are the real
American stuff, the pluck that can't be licked, and I'll soon have
you sound as a dollar."
Then he showed his immense bladder-like hand. "I'll have to make
some preparation, and will operate in your shanty at 1 o'clock,"
I said, thinking how very professional it sounded.
The preparation consisted of whetting my penknife and, much more
important, screwing up my nerves. And now I remembered my friend's
brandy, put the flask in my pocket, and went to the execution.
He was ready. "Here," I said; "take a good pull at this brandy."
"I will not," was the reply. "I'm man enough to go through on my
mettle."
"'Oh! confound your mettle," I thought, for I wanted an excuse to
take some myself, but could not for shame under the circumstances.
"Are you ready?"
He laid his pudding-y hand on the table.
"You better have your Indian friend hold that hand."
"I'll never budge," he replied, with set teeth, and motioned the
Indian away.
