Of my Incarceration in the Jug
have slipped my memory, there is the sin of Murder.”
He spoke the word as it were with a sort of bellow, and contemplated me sternly, his bibulous eyes, a little asquint, resting weakly on my face. But whether ’twas the dramatic pause he made that was too long for his wits, or that he was tired of the matter, he resumed presently without seeming to remember upon what he had been talking. “Ryder,” says he, “the ale in this Jug is admirable, but the wine is swipes for a tender stomach,” and at once fell to chuckling in delight of his jest.
“And that’s true, your reverence,” said I, “as I can bear witness. ’Tis hard that a man who is picked out for death may not so much as bowse a pint of good wine to warm his heart against the rope.”
He nodded approvingly, and we condoled in quite an affectionate manner; the which set presently smacking his lips over the rare flasks he had drunk in former times, more particularly in the company of Jerry Starbottle.
“Aye,” says he, “that was an excellent year,
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