It was about the time we had
promised ourselves dinner, and in fact our black guide and Pegtop had
dismounted, to make their preparations.
"Why, we surely cannot dine here? you don't mean to drink of that
stagnant pool, my dear sir?"
"Siste paulisper, my boy," said Mr Bang, as he stooped down, and skimmed
off the green covering with his hand, disclosing the water below, pure
and limpid as a crystal--clear fountain. We dined on the brink, and
discussed a bottle of vin--de--grave a--piece, and then had a small pull
at brandy and water; but we ate very little, although I was very hungry,
but Mr Bang would not let me feed largely.
"Now, Tom, you really do not understand things. When one rides a
goodish journey on end--say seventy miles or so--on the same horse, one
never feeds the trusty creature with half a bushel of oats; at least if
any wooden spoon does, the chances are he knocks him up. No, no--you
give him a mouthful of corn, but plenty to drink, little meal and water
here, and a bottle of porter in water there, and he brings you in
handsomely. Zounds! how would you yourself, Tom, like to dine on turtle
soup and venison, in the middle of a hissing hot ride of sixty miles,
thirty of them to be covered after the feed? Lord! what between the
rich food and the punch, you would have fermented like a brewer's vat
before you reached the end of the journey; and if you had not a boll
imperial measure of carbonate of soda with you, the chances are you
would explode like a catamaran, your head flying through some old
woman's window, and capsizing her teapot on the one hand, while on the
other your four quarters are scattered north, south, east, and west.
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