It was
the doctor solemnly pronouncing himself a dead man. He was sitting
up, with both hands clasped over his forehead, and his pale face a
thousand times paler than ever.
"That infernal stuff has murdered me!" he cried. "Heavens! my head's
all wheels and springs, like the automaton chess-player! What's to be
done, Paul? I'm poisoned."
But, after drinking a herbal draught concocted by our host, and eating
a light meal, at noon, he felt much better; so much so that he
declared himself ready to continue our journey.
When we came to start, the Yankee's boots were missing; and, after a
diligent search, were not to be found. Enraged beyond measure, their
proprietor said that Varvy must have stolen them; but, considering
his hospitality, I thought this extremely improbable; though to whom
else to impute the theft I knew not. The doctor maintained, however,
that one who was capable of drugging an innocent traveller with "Arva
Tee" was capable of anything.
But it was in vain that he stormed, and Varvy and I searched; the
boots were gone.
Were it not for this mysterious occurrence, and Varvy's detestable
liquors, I would here recommend all travellers going round by the
beach to Partoowye to stop at the Rock, and patronize the old
gentleman - the more especially as he entertains gratis.
