I tossed off a cap-box full and paid him a dollar.

It staggered me, and I said: "That is raw whisky." "Yes," said he, "all my cooked whisky is out." "If this is not quite cooked, it is as hot as fire anyhow, and burns like red-hot lava, and the whole dose seems to have got lodged in my windpipe." I might have tasted it, but don't think that I did.

All I can remember now, is a dim recollection of a nasty, greasy, burning something going down my throat and chest, and smelling, as I remember at this day, like a decoction of red-pepper tea, flavored with coal oil, turpentine and tobacco juice.
THE HOSPITAL I went to the hospital that evening, saw it, and was satisfied with hospital life.

I did not wish to be called a hospital rat.

I had no idea of taking stock and making my headquarters at this place.
Everything seemed clean and nice enough, but the smell! Ye gods! I stayed there for supper.