“The prime old bourbon served at the fust-class New York bars still maintains its reputation, I dare hope, suh?” he interrogated.
“I cannot say, I’m sure,” I replied.
“No, suh,” he agreed. “Doubtless you are partial to your own stock. That bottle which I see doesn’t happen to be a sample of your favorite preservative?”
“That?” I retorted. “It is toilet water. I am sorry to say I have no liquor with me.”
“The deficiency will soon be forgotten, suh,” the Colonel bravely consoled. “Bill, we shall have to personally conduct him and provide him with the proper entertainment.”
“What is your special line o’ business, if you don’t mind my axin’?” Bill invited.
“I am out here for my health, at present,” said I, vainly hunting a clean spot on the towel. “I have been advised by my physician to seek a place in the Far West that is high and dry. Benton”—and I laughed miserably, “certainly is dry.” For now I began to appreciate the frankly affirmative responses to my previous confessions. “And high, judging by the rates.” 67
“Healthily dry, suh, in the matter of water,” the Colonel approved. “We are not cursed by the humidity of New York State, grand old State that she is. Foh those who require water, there is the Platte only three miles distant. The nearer proximity of water we consider a detriment to the robustness of a community. Our rainy weather is toler’bly infrequent. The last spell we had—lemme see. There was a brief shower, scurcely enough to sanction a parasol by a lady, last May, warn’t it, Bill? When we was camped at Rawlins’ Springs, shooting antelope.”
“Some’ers about that time. But didn’t last long—not more’n two minutes,” Bill responded.
“As foh fluids demanded by the human system, we are abundantly blessed, suh. There is scurcely any popular brand that you can’t get in Benton, and I hold that we have the most skillful mixtologists in history. There are some who are artists; artists, suh. But mainly we prefer our likker straight.”