"Ha!" said the Colonel; "you have forgotten the wine, rascals!"
"Bring a dozen bottles," Maurice suggested, having an idea in
mind.
"Eh?"
"Remember, Colonel, I've been a soldier and a journalist in a
country where they only wash with water. In the summer we have
whisky iced, in the winter we have it hot; an antidote for both
heat and cold. Ah, Colonel, if you only might sniff a mint julep!"
"A dozen bottles, then," said the Colonel to the servants, who
retired to execute the order.
"How old will it be?" asked Maurice.
"Twice your age, my son. But do not make any miscalculation
about my capacity for tokayer."
"Any miscalculation?" Maurice echoed.
"Yes; if you plan to get me drunk. There are no troopers about,
and it would be easy enough for you to slip out if I should lose
my head."
Maurice's laugh had a false ring to it. The Colonel had made a
very shrewd guess.
"Well!" said the Colonel, with a gesture toward the table.
They sat down, and both made an excellent dinner. Maurice
demolished a roasted pheasant, stuffed with chestnuts, while the
Colonel disintegrated a duck. The wine came, and the servants
ranged six bottles on the side of each plate.
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