"Ordinary men may drink 'McNab!'" said Mole, picking up the Times and looking at it severely. "The whisky-drinker who has once tried 'Tommy Morgan' will never touch anything else. I've taken whisky since I was seven years old—was brought up on it; father drank it—grandfather too, and great-grandfather. We've been in the trade for generations. I don't suppose there's another man of my age who's a better judge of whisky than I am."
The precocious youth returned with the whisky in a tumbler.
"I got it, sir. Had to go to the Blue Crown. They charged a penny extra."
"Good," said Mole. "Now I can enjoy my dinner. If they'd charged a shilling for it," he said to Gray, speaking as a connoisseur, "it would have been worth the money."
He took a mouthful of the whisky-and-water, and closed his eyes with dreamy satisfaction. Gray called out to the retreating boy.
"How far do you have to go for whisky?" he asked.
"Not far, sir," said the boy. "Shan't be five minutes."
"Well, get me some whisky—the same," pointing to Mole's glass.
"I beg your pardon," said Mole, suddenly. "Allow me to say a word. Don't," lowering his voice, "don't take this unless you are used to whisky. Don't take it merely as a spirit, either. But——" he put one finger on Gray's sleeve and paused significantly, "if you want flavour—flavour, then try it."
Gray did try it, and was obliged to confess that he didn't notice anything special about it. Mole was not surprised; in fact, he said that he should have been surprised if Gray had noticed the flavour. Whiskies like "Tommy Morgan" were an acquired taste, you had to get used to them. When once you were used to them—when once you were used to "Tommy Morgan," then—