“I have always been a very heavy drinker,” said Mr. Stott gravely. “My father was before me. I am what is known as a three-bottle man.”
He wondered at himself as he spoke. His maligned parent had been a Baptist minister.
“Goodness!” said Eline impressed, “and there are only two bottles on the sideboard!”
Mr. Stott looked.
“There is only one, Eline,” he said severely, and looked again. “Yes, perhaps you’re right.” He closed first one eye and then the other. “Only one,” he said.
“Two,” murmured Eline defiantly.
“We Stotts have always been devil-may-care fellows,” said Mr. Stott moodily. “Into one scrape and out of another. Hard drinking, hard riding, hard living men, the salt of the earth, Eline.”
“There are three bottles!” said Eline in wonderment.
“My father fought Kid McGinty for twenty-five rounds.” Mt. Stott shook his head. “And beat him to—to—a jelly. Hard fighters every one of us. By heaven,” he said, his pugilistic mood reviving certain memories, “if I had laid my hands on that scoun’rel...!”
He walked heavily, rose and walked with long strides into the hall. Eline scenting action, followed. Her strides were not so long, but longer than she expected. Mr. Stott was standing on the doorstep, his hands on his hip, his legs apart, and he was looking disparagingly at Mayfield.