Wigman was obliged to refill his glass before he could summon his thoughts for a reply.
“Mr. Robson,” he then said, “you’re a scholar, and must be aware that the ancient Spartans, in order to disgust their children with intemperance, used to make their slaves drunk. If I send my children among the Yankees, it is that they may be struck by the superiority of the Southern character when they return home.”
“So you’ve no faith in the old maxim touching evil communications,” said Robson, taking a bottle of Champagne, and easing the cork so as to send it to the ceiling with a loud pop. “Now, gentlemen, bumpers all round! Onslow, let me fill your glass; Kenrick, yours. Drink to my sentiment. Here’s confusion to the old concern!”
Vance was just lifting a spoonful to his lips; but he returned it to his plate as he heard the name of Onslow, and looked round. Yes, it was surely he!—the boy of the Pontiac, now a handsome youth of twenty-four. On his right sat the young man addressed as Kenrick. At the latter Vance hardly looked, so intent was he on Onslow’s response.
Wigman spoke first. Holding up his glass, and amorously eyeing the salmon hue of the wine, he exclaimed: “Agreed! Here’s confusion to the old con-hiccup-concern!”
The Senator’s unfortunate hiccup elicited inextinguishable laughter from the rest, until Robson rapped with the handle of his knife on the table, and cried: “Order! order! Gentlemen, I consider that man a sneaking traitor who’ll not get drunk in behalf of sentiments like those our friend the Senator has been uttering.”
“Look here, young man, do you mean to insinuate that I’m getting drunk,” said Wigman, angrily.
“Far from it, Wigman. Any one can see you’re not getting drunk.”
“I accept the apology,” said Wigman, with maudlin dignity.
“Well, then, gentlemen,” cried Robson, “now for the previous question! Confusion to the old concern!”