The sideboard indeed resembled a bar. There was a row of all sorts of bottles—plebeian native corn whisky, liqueurs, gin, cocktails, even aristocratic gold necks. Lockwood was about to decline anything at all; but he saw Tom’s shocked and mortified expression, and he accepted a very small cocktail. Tom himself took a rather large one, and it was plainly not his first that day. But he still could not be called anything but sober, and they went back to the gallery, lighted now by the sunset, and Lockwood found a chair as far from Hanna as possible.
CHAPTER VII
’POSSUM AND POKER
Henry Power was detailing to him in a low and gentle voice a series of reminiscences of lurid, old days along the river. The old man had no sort of objection to recalling his submerged past, and Lockwood was beginning to get interested, when supper was announced.
That was a meal never to be forgotten. It was served on china with a magnificent amount of gold decoration, and three glasses and a champagne bottle stood at every place but two—those of Louise and of her father. A sumptuous boiled ham appeared immediately, along with a baked ’possum and sweet potatoes; and in a torrent, it seemed, with these came sweet potatoes boiled, fried and preserved in sirup, mashed Irish potatoes, okra, rice, olives, salad, hot biscuits, and several kinds of cornbread.
Jackson Power opened the wine, with a great popping and joviality. It was extremely effervescent and sweet, and was probably synthetic, though the label was printed in French. The boys drank it in quantity; Hanna more sparingly. Louise took only water, and old Henry consumed large cups of strong black coffee.
Hanna sat directly opposite Lockwood, and the woods rider compelled himself to meet his enemy’s eye with coolness. Hanna had changed little since he was McGibbon; he was handsome as ever, and as suave and dignified, but Lockwood had the key to that face now, and he read behind the hard mouth, the hard, watchful gray eyes. Hanna, for his part, had been observing Lockwood with a good deal of unobtrusive curiosity, though they had hardly exchanged three sentences. At last he said, across the table:
“You’re not an Alabama man, Mr. Lockwood?”
“No. Blue-grass Kentuckian,” Lockwood answered.
“I know that country well. Were you ever in Virginia?”
“I’ve been in Richmond and Norfolk.”