“Absolutely, suh. Personal property is respected in Benton. We’d hang the man who moved that bag of yours the fraction of one inch.”
This at least was comforting. As much could not be said of New York City. The Colonel led down the echoing hall and the shaking stairs, into the lobby, peopled as before by men in all modes of attire and clustered mainly at the bar. He led directly to the bar itself.
“Three, Ed. Name your likker, gentlemen. A little Double X foh me, Ed.”
“Old rye,” Bill briefly ordered.
The bartender set out bottle and whiskey glasses, and looked upon me. I felt that the bystanders were waiting. My garb proclaimed the “pilgrim,” but I was resolved to be my own master, and for liquor I had no taste.
“Lemonade, if you have it,” I faltered.
“Yes, sir.” The bartender cracked not a smile, but a universal sigh, broken by a few sniggers, voiced the appraisal of the audience. Some of the loafers eyed me amusedly, some turned away.
“Surely, suh, you will temper that with a dash of fortifiah,” the Colonel protested. “A pony of brandy, 71 Ed—or just a dash to cut the water in it. To me, suh, the water in this country is vile—inimical to the human stomick.”
“Thank you,” said I, “but I prefer plain lemonade.”
“The gent wants his pizen straight, same as the rest of you,” calmly remarked the bartender.