We christened the
brew 'Squaw's Mixture,' because it was such weak stuff that even a
woman couldn't have got drunk on it if she tried. Squaw means woman in
those parts, you know; and Mixture means--what you've got afore you
now. I knowed you couldn't stand regular grog, and that's why I cooked
it up for you. Don't keep on stirring of it with a spoon like that, or
you'll stir it away altogether. Try it."
"Let _me_ try it--let's see how weak it is," cried Zack, reaching over
to Valentine.
"Don't you go a-shoving of your oar into another man's rollocks," said
Mat, dexterously knocking Zack's spoon out of his hand just as it
touched Mr. Blyth's tumbler. "You stick to _your_ grog; I'll stick to
_my_ grog; and _he'll_ stick to Squaw's Mixture." With those words, Mat
leant his bare elbows on the table, and watched Valentine's first
experimental sip with great curiosity.
The result was not successful. When Mr. Blyth put down the tumbler, all
the watery part of the Squaw's Mixture seemed to have got up into his
eyes, and all the spirituous part to have stopped short at his lungs.
He shook his head, coughed, and faintly exclaimed--"Too strong."
"Too hot you mean?" said Mat.
"No, indeed," pleaded poor Mr.
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