And with the tears pouring down his cheeks, and holding on to his diaphragm with both hands, he staggered into the open. The saloon-keeper watched him from the doorway, until he had passed the second block, and rounded the corner; and returned to his counter and his bottles, with the pious exclamation: “The Lord be praised.! He hasn’t died in our parish!” No chapter on strange drinks would be complete without the following story, which, I confess at the outset, is one of the most venerable of “chestnuts.” It appeared in the _Sporting Times_ four-and-twenty years ago, and I will not affirm that it was strictly original even then. It has since been translated into every known language; but it is just possible that some of the rising generation may not have heard it. A well-dressed gentleman entered a chemist’s shop one morning, evidently in a violent hurry. “Can you make me up a dose of castor-oil?” “Certainly, sir,” said the dispenser, with a bow. {125} Whilst he was going through the usual motions—no prescription can be properly made up until the chemist has overhauled every bottle on the top shelf, opened most of the empty drawers, and upset a tray of tooth-brushes—the customer was fidgeting about the shop, and fanning himself with a scented pocket-handkerchief. “It’s infernally hot,” he said presently, “and I don’t think I ever felt so thirsty in my life. Can I have a bottle of lemonade?” “Certainly, sir.” More sorting of bottles. Presently “pop” goes a cork, and the sparkling lemonade is poured into a mammoth tumbler. The customer drains it at once. “Ah-h-h!” he crowed, wiping his mouth. “I feel a bit better now.” A pause. Presently he asked:— “Have you made that up yet?” “What, sir?” asked the chemist. “Why that stuff—the castor-oil I ordered.” “You’ve had it, sir.” “Had it? Wotty mean?” “I gave it you in the lemonade, sir.” “Great Scotland Yard!” exclaimed the customer. “I didn’t want it for myself—I’m going to be married in half an hour!” {126} CHAPTER XII “THE BOY” Definition of the youth — The valley of the Marne — An Archbishop in sparkling company — All is not cham. that fizzes — Beneficial effects of Pommery — Dire memories of the Haymarket — The bad boy at York — A hair of the canine — The good boy — Gout defied — Old Roman cellars — A chronic bombardment — Magnums to right of ’em — Duties of the disgorger — Simon the cellarer — Fifteen millions of full bottles — Pro-dig-i-ous! — Gooseberry champagne a myth — About Médoc — The ancients spelt claret with two “r’s” — Hints on adulteration — “Château Gubbins” — New wine — Gladstone claret — “Pricked!” “See how it sparkles, this drink divine,”