“I won’t have it, Wolf Penniman! No, I won’t have it!” said and repeated Colonel Wimpleton, as, with an uncertain step, he shuffled up to the door of my state-room, on board of the Ucayga. The magnate of Centreport was more than usually intoxicated. For two or three years he had kept himself well filled with rum. His face had grown red, and toddy-blossoms had gathered upon his aquiline nose, but he seldom manifested any of the ordinary symptoms of drunkenness. It was not often that he reeled, or became incoherent in his speech, as on the present occasion. If he was ever overcome by his besetting vice, it was not in public. I had certainly never before seen him in the condition in which he p…
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