One day he brought me something in a packet, and pressed it
into my hand with the air of a man who is relieving you of all your
troubles.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Open it and see," he answered, in the tone of a pantomime fairy.
I opened it and looked, but I was no wiser.
"It's tea," he explained.
"Oh!" I replied; "I was wondering if it could be snuff."
"Well, it's not exactly tea," he continued, "it's a sort of tea.
You take one cup of that--one cup, and you will never care for any
other kind of tea again."
He was quite right, I took one cup. After drinking it I felt I
didn't care for any other tea. I felt I didn't care for anything,
except to die quietly and inoffensively. He called on me a week
later.
"You remember that tea I gave you?" he said.
"Distinctly," I answered; "I've got the taste of it in my mouth
now."
"Did it upset you?" he asked.
"It annoyed me at the time," I answered; "but that's all over now."
He seemed thoughtful. "You were quite correct," he answered; "it
WAS snuff, a very special snuff, sent me all the way from India."
"I can't say I liked it," I replied.
"A stupid mistake of mine," he went on--"I must have mixed up the
packets!"
"Oh, accidents will happen," I said, "and you won't make another
mistake, I feel sure; so far as I am concerned.
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