“Now, mind you,” said the doctor, “I clear my conscience⁠—the name of rum for you is death.”

And with that he went off to see my father, taking me with him by the arm.

“This is nothing,” he said, as soon as he had closed the door. “I have drawn blood enough to keep him quiet awhile; he should lie for a week where he is⁠—that is the best thing for him and you, but another stroke would settle him.”