"Or Miss Liz is taking a nap," the other suggested, raising one of the frosted goblets. "Here's to the gratification of your merest whim, sir!"
Both drank a swallow, and then sat upright staring at each other in amazement.
"God bless my soul!" the Colonel gasped, "what is this stuff?"
"It tastes like raspberry juice," Brent answered, warily taking another sip. "But it's sort of good—it's real good!"
The old gentleman gingerly sipped it now, and then once more, while his lips made the soft smacking noise of taste on an investigation.
"By Godfry, it is good," he wagged his head convincingly. "It's mighty good, sir!—er—perhaps Lizzie was not asleep, after all!"
After a few moments of contented silence—when Aunt Timmie had tiptoed back to the kitchen and was relating to Miss Liz the success of their undertaking—the Colonel asked:
"How is the road coming on?"
A month earlier Brent would have evaded this subject, but now his eyes sparkled with pleasure.
"Bully! I've been able to make speed by the fortunate possession of a hand map by Thruston—that super-accurate geologist, metallurgist and engineer who tramped every foot of these mountains twenty-five years ago—and it's making things easy. We've nothing to equal it, even today!"