“I wish you would let your lad Tom step over for me to Mr. Jones’s.  I left a demijohn of common wine there, which I bought for the purpose of making it into antimonial wine.

“O! certainly,” replied the store-keeper.  “Here, Tom!” and he called for his boy.

Tom came, and the store-keeper said to him,

“Run over to Mr. Jones’s and get a jug of antimonial wine which Mr. Smith left there.  Go quickly, for Mr. Smith is in a hurry.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the lad, and away he ran.

After Mr. Jones had disposed of his half a pint of wine, he thought his stomach had rather a curious sensation, which is not much to be wondered at, considering the stuff with which he had burdened it.

“I wonder if that really is wine?” said he, turning from the window at which he had seated himself, and taking up tie demijohn again.  The cork was removed, and his nose applied to the mouth of the huge bottle.

“Yes, it’s wine; but I’ll vow it’s not much to brag of.”  And the cork was once more replaced.

Just then came a knock at the door.  Mrs. Jones opened it, and the store-keeper’s lad appeared.

“Mr. Smith says, please let me have the jug of antimonial wine he left here.”

“Antimonial wine!” exclaimed Mr. Jones, his chin falling, and a paleness instantly overspread his face.

“Yes, sir,” said the lad.

“Antimonial wine!” fell again, but huskily, from the quivering lips of Mr. Jones.  “Send for the doctor, Kitty, quick!  Oh!  How sick I feel!  Send for the doctor, or I’ll be a dead man in half an hour!”

“Antimonial wine!  Dreadful!” exclaimed Mrs. Jones, now as pale and frightened as her husband.  “Do you feel sick?”

“O! yes.  As sick as death!” And the appearance of Mr. Jones by no means belied his words.  “Send for the doctor instantly, or it may be too late.”

Mrs. Jones ran first in one direction and then in another, and finally, after telling the boy to run for the doctor, called Jane, her single domestic, and started her on the same errand.

Off sprung Jane at a speed outstripping that of John Gilpin.  Fortunately, the doctor was in his office, and he came with all the rapidity a proper regard to the dignity of his profession would permit, armed with a stomach pump and a dozen antidotes.  On arriving at the house of Mr. Jones he found the sufferer lying upon a bed, ghastly pale, and retching terribly.

“O! doctor!  I’m afraid it’s all over with me!” gasped the patient.

“How did it happen? what have you taken?” inquired the doctor, eagerly.

“I took, by mistake, nearly a pint of antimonial wine.”

“Then it must be removed instantly,” said the doctor; and down the sick man’s throat went one end of a long, flexible, India rubber tube, and pump! pump! pump! went the doctor’s hand at the other end.  The result was very palpable.  About a pint of reddish fluid, strongly smelling of wine, came up, after which the instrument was withdrawn.