“The glasses will crack.”
“Not a bit of it, if you put the spoon in.”
The candles are re-lit, the last little tongue of flame darts to the centre of the bowl, twirls round, and disappears.
And all admit that the punch is a success, a splendid success.
§7
Next day I awake with a headache, clearly due to the punch. That comes of mixing liquors. Punch is poison; I vow never to touch it in future.
My servant, Peter, comes in. “You came in last night, Sir, wearing someone else’s hat, not so good a hat as your own.”
“The deuce take my hat!”
“Perhaps I had better go where you dined last night and enquire?”
“Do you suppose, my good man, that one of the party went home bare-headed?”