“Ready,” he announced.
“Oh, damn!” Jacob groaned. “Write a letter to yourself.”
“I’ll write a line to you,” the young man suggested soothingly.
He attacked his task very much as a child trying to spell out “The Bluebells of Scotland” on a piano with one finger. In a few minutes, with an air of pride, he drew out the sheet and passed it to his companion. Jacob stretched out a feeble hand and read listlessly.
Dear Mr. Pratt,
I believe that a couple of dry Martini cocktails would do us both good.
Faithfully yours,
Felixstowe.
Sec. (Very sec!)
A weak smile parted Jacob’s lips and he grunted assent. Felixstowe exchanged cabalistic signs with the deck steward, and in due course the latter appeared with a couple of glasses filled with frosted amber liquid. Jacob hesitated for a moment doubtfully.
“Try mental suggestion,” the young man advised, looking lovingly at his glass. “Put it where the cat can’t get it and say to yourself, ‘This is going to do me good.’ Cheerio!”
Two empty glasses were replaced upon the tray. Jacob raised himself a little in his chair.