Clover thought so, with the result that they speeded through tranquil neighborhoods and churned leisurely where the masses seethed until countless thousands were wondering what under the sun those four young fellows had in the back of their car.
The sad part about all good fun is that it has to end sooner or later; and about six o’clock the whole party began to be aware that, if refreshments were not taken, their end was surely close at hand. They therefore called a brief halt somewhere to get what is technically known as a “sandwich,” and the results were thoroughly satisfactory to everyone but Aunt Mary. She took one bite of her sandwich, and then opened it with an abruptness which merged into disgust when it proved to be full of fish eggs.
“Why didn’t you tell me what it was made of?” she asked in annoyance. “I feel just as if I’d swallowed a marsh—a green one!”
“That’s a shame!” said Clover indignantly. “I’ll get you something that will take that taste out of your mouth double quick. Here!” he called to a waiter, and then he gave the man certain careful directions.
The latter nodded wisely, and a few minutes later brought in a tiny glass containing a pousse-café in three different colors.
“It’s a cocktail. Drink it quick,” Clover directed.
Aunt Mary demurred.
“I never drank a cocktail,” she began.
“No time like the present to begin,” said Clover, “you’ll have to learn some day.”
“Cocktails,” said Mitchell, “are the advance guard of a newer and brighter civilization. They—”