“How much more of it?” he asked Ford, and the other answered—
“Not five minutes. The drink is ready. We will wish him good luck and long life. Then we will clear out. His rum punch is really worth drinking. I know nothing like it.”
Meantime Jacky had rinsed out his three split calabash bowls and now placed them on the table in a row.
“Dis Obi punch I make for you, sar. Nobody make him but Jesse!” declared the host. Then he poured his concoction into the three bowls and, when he had emptied a large open pan, about half a pint of liquor filled each calabash.
“Drink and remember de poor old Obi Man, sars! Dar’s yours, Massa Ford, and dar’s yours, Massa Vivian; and dis am mine. Jacky and me will share and share togedder.”
He handed the calabashes to his son and a close observer might have noted that into one bowl of refreshment—that intended for Henry Vivian—Jesse dipped the long, bony middle finger of his right hand.
A moment later Jabez Ford lifted his drink and pledged the giver.
“Here’s to you, old fellow, and may your shadow never grow less. Good luck and long life to all of us!”
He drank heartily, smacked his lips, and set his empty bowl upon the table, while Vivian followed his example and drained his drink also.
“Splendid—splendid!” he said. “I’ll give you another sovereign for the secret of that!”