The other man laughed.
“For a fellow who’s been pickled night after night, that’s certainly an amusing view to take,” he said. “If you can’t hold a dram of whisky for the sake of drinking Lola’s health, well, you’re a poor——”
“Give it to me.” Ray snatched the cup, but spilt a portion, and, drinking down the contents at a draught, he threw the metal holder to his companion.
“Ugh! I don’t care for that whisky. I don’t think I care for any whisky at all. There’s nothing harder to pretend you like than drinking, if you don’t happen to like it.”
“I don’t think anybody likes it at first,” said Lew. “It’s like tomatoes—a cultivated taste.”
He was watching his companion keenly.
“Where do we go from Gloucester?” asked Ray.
“We don’t go anywhere from Gloucester. We just stop there for a day, and then we change and come back.”
“It’s a stupid idea,” said Ray Bennett, screwing up his eyes and yawning. “Who is this Frog, Lew?” He yawned again, lay back on the grass, his hands under his head.
Lew Brady emptied the remainder of the flask’s contents upon the grass, screwed up the stopper and shook the cup before he rose and walked across to the sleeping boy.