“Oh, them there ladies done brought their own substantials.”
“You mean in their hip pockets”—correcting herself, “in their own flasks?”
“Sure enough, ma’am—but....”
“Ah, then you might be able to fix us up?”
The waiter studied the two for a moment, then, assured that he could take a chance, replied, “Guess I can,” and prepared to go.
Mrs. O’Brien halted him with “Good stuff, remember, and some ginger ale.”
“Good stuff is right, ma’am. Government goods, made before the war,” and he was gone.
Shortly he returned with their food, a bottle of ginger ale and a small flask wrapped in a napkin. The latter he placed at the side of Mrs. O’Brien’s plate, and without further ado was away to attend to other duties.
After pouring the contents of the flask, about a half pint, into their glasses, Mrs. O’Brien studied the label on the bottle and with a smile read “For medicinal purposes only.” “Yes, rye whiskey, bonded by the government about two months ago. You see what I mean by the ‘state of mind’?”
During the meal, enlivened by the cheering cup, they heard snatches of the conversations of nearby diners. All were speaking of the liquor situation. One woman admitted that prior to the country going dry she never thought of drinking, now she couldn’t get enough. A man remarked that he and others, belonging to his club, were operating under protection.