Elliott, in a tone of severity.
"No, sir. I deny it, sir!" and the eyes of Mr. Ridley flashed.
"Before Heaven, sir, not a drop has passed my lips to-day!"
His breath, loaded with the fumes of a recent glass of whisky, was
filling the clergyman's nostrils. Mr. Elliott was confounded by this
denial. What was to be done with such a man?
"Not a drop, sir," repeated Mr. Ridley. "The vile stuff is killing
me. I must give it up."
"It is your only hope," said the clergyman. "You must give up the
vile stuff, as you call it, or it will indeed kill you."
"That's just why I've come to you, Mr. Elliott. You understand this
matter better than most people. I've heard you talk."
"Heard me talk?"
"Yes, sir. It's pure wine that the people want. My sentiments
exactly. If we had pure wine, we'd have no drunkenness. You know
that as well as I do. I've heard you talk, Mr. Elliott, and you talk
right--yes, right, sir."
"When did you hear me talk?" asked Mr. Elliott, who was beginning to
feel worried.
Oh, at a party last winter. I was there and heard you."
"What did I say?"
"Just these words, and they took right hold of me. You said that
'pure wine could hurt no one, unless indeed his appetite were
vitiated by the use of alcohol, and even then you believed that the
moderate use of strictly pure wine would restore the normal taste
and free a man from the tyranny of an enslaving vice.
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