The Honorable Prim bent closer. “What is it, St. George, some old Port?” he asked in a perfunctory way. Rare old wines never interested him. “They are an affectation,” he used to say.
“No, Seymour—it's really a bottle of the Peter Remsen 1817 Madeira.”
The bottle was passed, every eye watching it with the greatest interest.
“No, never mind the corkscrew, Todd,—I'll pick it out,” remarked the major, examining the hazardous cork with the care of a watchmaker handling a broken-down chronometer. “You're right, St. George—it's too far gone. Don't watch me, Seymour, or I'll get nervous. You'll hoodoo it—you Scotchmen are the devil when it comes to anything fit to drink,” and he winked at Prim.
“How much is there left of it, St. George?” asked Latrobe, watching the major manipulate the nutpick.
“Not a drop outside that bottle.”
“Let us pray—for the cork,” sighed Latrobe. “Easy—E-A-SY, major—think of your responsibility, man!”
It was out now, the major dusting the opening with one end of his napkin—his face wreathed in smiles when his nostrils caught the first whiff of its aroma.
“By Jupiter!—gentlemen!—When I'm being snuffed out I'll at least go like a gentleman if I have a drop of this on my lips. It's a bunch of roses—a veritable nosegay. Heavens!—what a bouquet! Some fresh glasses, Todd.”
Malachi and Todd both stepped forward for the honor of serving it, but the major waved them aside, and rising to his feet began the round of the table, filling each slender pipe-stem glass to the brim.