d effected some sort of a
change in the thick sweet wine--branded it, I imagine.

I took a taste. Delicious! And thereafter, once each day, at twelve
o'clock, after our observations were worked up and the Snark's position
charted, I drank half a tumbler of the stuff. It had a rare kick to it.
It warmed the cockles of my geniality and put a fairer face on the truly
fair face of the sea. Each morning, below, sweating out my thousand
words, I found myself looking forward to that twelve o'clock event of the
day.

The trouble was I had to share the stuff, and the length of the traverse
was doubtful. I regretted that there were not more than a dozen bottles.
And when they were gone I even regretted that I had shared any of it. I
was thirsty for the alcohol, and eager to arrive in the Marquesas.

So it was that I reached the Marquesas the possessor of a real man's size
thirst. And in the Marquesas were several white men, a lot of sickly
natives, much magnificent scenery, plenty of trade rum, an immense
quantity of absinthe, but neither whisky nor gin. The trade rum scorched
the skin off one's mouth. I know, because I tried it. But I had ever
been plastic, and I accepted the absinthe. The trouble with the stuff
was that I had to take such inordinate quantities in order to feel the
slightest effect.

From the Marquesas I sailed with sufficient absinthe in ballast to last
me to Tahiti, where I outfitted with Scotch and American whisky, and
thereafter there were no dry stretches between ports. But please do not
misunderstand. There was no drunkenness, as drunkenness is ordinarily
understood--no staggering and rolling around, no befuddlement of the
senses. The skilled and seasoned drinker, with a strong constitution,
never descends to anything like that. He drinks to feel good, to get a
pleasant jingle, and no more than that. The things he carefully avoids
are the nausea of over-drinking, the after-effect of over-drinking, the
helplessness and loss of pride of over-drinking.

What the skilled and seasoned drinker achieves is a discreet and canny
semi-intoxication. And he does it by the twelve-month around without any
apparent penalty. There are hundreds of thousands of men of this sort in
the United States to-day, in clubs, hotels, and in their own homes--men
who are never drunk, and who, though most of them will indignantly deny
it, are rarely sober. And all of them fondly believe, as I fondly
believed, that