I assured her that everything was “hunky doory” at home, praised the telephone service, my expedition to town, and painted my return ride with “the honest farmer” in glowing terms. I was suddenly halted in my eulogy by becoming aware of an amazed expression on my wife’s countenance, a most suspicious glance in Beth’s wide-open eyes, and a very knowing wink from Rob.
“Lucien,” said Silvia severely, “I believe you’ve been drinking. I certainly smell spirits.”
“Maybe you do,” I replied jocosely. “I certainly saw spirits. I went to the haunted house on my way back.”
“I thought Windy Creek was a dry town,” remarked Rob innocently.
“It is,” I assured him, “but I rode home with an old man––a farmer.”
“Does he run a blind pig?” asked Rob.
“It was more like a pig in a poke,” I replied.
“Lucien,” exclaimed Silvia reproachfully, “you told me two years ago, after that banquet to the Bar, that you were never going to touch wine or whisky again. What did that horrid old man give you?”
“A stone fence. That’s what he said it was anyway.”