"Hey, dere, poy, gif me some more oaf dat--what you
call--'bubble-water.'"
That was how the waiter had spoken of the champagne--"bubble-water."
The guests had shouted applause, "Outa sight." He was a heavy josher was
that waiter.
Bottle after bottle was opened, the women stopping their ears as the
corks were drawn. All of a sudden the dentist uttered an exclamation,
clapping his hand to his nose, his face twisting sharply.
"Mac, what is it?" cried Trina in alarm.
"That champagne came to my nose," he cried, his eyes watering. "It
stings like everything."
"Great BEER, ain't ut?" shouted Marcus.
"Now, Mark," remonstrated Trina in a low voice. "Now, Mark, you just
shut up; that isn't funny any more. I don't want you should make fun of
Mac. He called it beer on purpose. I guess HE knows."
Throughout the meal old Miss Baker had occupied herself largely with
Owgooste and the twins, who had been given a table by themselves--the
black walnut table before which the ceremony had taken place. The little
dressmaker was continually turning about in her place, inquiring of the
children if they wanted for anything; inquiries they rarely answered
other than by stare, fixed, ox-like, expressionless.
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