“Be careful not to inflame it,” said Puffin.
“Thank ye for the warning. It’s this beastly climate that touches it up. A winter in England adds years on to a man’s life unless he takes care of himself. Take care of yourself, old boy. Have some more sugar.”
Before long the Major’s hand was moving slowly and instinctively towards Puffin’s whisky bottle again.
“I reckon that big glass of yours, Puffin,” he said, “holds between three and a half times to four times what my little tumbler holds. Between three and a half and four I should reckon. I may be wrong.”
“Reckoning the water in, I daresay you’re not far out, Major,” said he. “And according to my estimate you mix your drink somewhere about three and a half times to four stronger than I mix mine.”
“Oh, come, come!” said the Major.
“Three and a half to four times, I should say,” repeated Puffin. “You won’t find I’m far out.”
He replenished his big tumbler, and instead of putting the bottle back on the table, absently deposited it on the floor on the far side of his chair. This second tumbler usually marked the most convivial period of the evening, for the first would have healed whatever unhappy discords had marred the harmony of the day, and, those being disposed of, they very contentedly talked through their hats about past prowesses, and took a rosy view of the youth and energy which still beat in their vigorous pulses. They would begin, perhaps, by extolling each other: Puffin, when informed that his friend would be fifty-four next birthday, flatly refused (without offence) to believe it, and, indeed, he was quite right in so doing, because the Major was in reality fifty-six. In turn, Major Flint would say that his friend had the figure of a boy of twenty, which caused Puffin presently to feel a little cramped and to wander negligently in front of the big looking-glass between the windows, and find this compliment much easier to swallow than the Major’s age. For the next half-hour they would chiefly talk about themselves in a pleasant glow of self-satisfaction. Major Flint, looking at the various implements and trophies that adorned the room, would suggest putting a sporting challenge in the Times.
“’Pon my word, Puffin,” he would say, “I’ve half a mind to do it. Retired Major of His Majesty’s Forces—the King, God bless him!” (and he took a substantial sip); “‘Retired Major, aged fifty-four, challenges any gentleman of fifty years or over.’”
“Forty,” said Puffin sycophantically, as he thought over what he would say about himself when the old man had finished.