To this his wife made no reply.

“I was drunk last night, Sally,” Jim said, after a moment’s silence.

“You needn’t take the trouble to tell me that.”

“Of course not.  But an open confession, you know, is good for the soul.  I was drunk last night, then—­drunk as a fool, after all I promised—­but I’m not going to get drunk again, so—­”

“Don’t swear any more false oaths, Jim:  you’ve sworn enough already.”

“Yes, but Sally, I am going to quit now, and I want you to talk to me like a good wife, and advise with me.”

“If you don’t go away and let me alone now, I’ll throw these tongs at you!” the wife rejoined, angrily, rising up and brandishing the article she had named.  “You are trying me beyond all manner of patience!”

“There—­there—­keep cool, Sally.  It’ll all go into your lifetime, darlin’,” Jim replied, good-humouredly, taking hold of her hand, and extricating the tongs from them, and then drawing his arm around her waist, and forcing her to sit down in a chair, while he took one just beside her.

“Now, Sally, I’m in dead earnest, if ever I was in my life,” he began, “and if you’ll tell me any way to break off from this wretched habit into which I have fallen, I’ll do it.”

“Go and sign the pledge, then;” his wife said promptly, and somewhat sternly.

“And give up my liberty?”

“And regain it, rather.  You’re a slave now.”

“I’ll do it, then, for your sake.”

“Don’t trifle with me, any more, James; I can’t bear it much longer, I feel that I can’t—­” poor Mrs. Braddock said in a plaintive tone, while the tears came to her eyes.

“I wont deceive you any more, Sally.  I’ll sign, and I’ll keep my pledge.  If I could only have said—­’I’ve signed the pledge,’ yesterday, I would have been safe.  But I’ve got no pledge, and I’m afraid to go out to hunt up Malcom, for fear I shall see a grog-shop.”

“Can’t you write a pledge?”

“No.  I can’t write anything but a bill, or a label for one of your pickle-pots.”

“But try.”

“Well, give me a pen, some ink, and a piece of paper.”

But there was neither pen, ink, nor paper, in the house.  Mrs. Braddock, however, soon mustered them all in the neighbourhood, and came and put them down upon the table before her husband.

“There, now, write a pledge,” she said.

“I will.”  And Jim took up the pen and wrote—­“Blister my feathers if ever I drink another drop of Alcohol, or anything that will make drunk come, sick or well, dead or alive!”

JIM BRADDOCK.”

“But that’s a queer pledge, Jim.”

“I don’t care if it is.  I’ll keep it.”

“It’s just no pledge at all.”

“You’re an old goose!  Now give me a hammer and four nails.”

“What do you want with a hammer and four nails?”

“I want to nail my pledge up over the mantelpiece.”