“Never heard of it!” cried Kearns. “Why, man, the head barkeeper of the Waldorf-Astoria told me a couple of weeks—that is—ah—a couple of months ago—that they sold over two hundred high balls a day.”
“The Waldorf-Astoria,” repeated the bartender, shortly; “what’s that?”
Kearns could only gasp in astonishment.
“The Waldorf-Astoria,” repeated the bartender meditatively; “oh, yes! I think I remember now. Isn’t that the big restorang and commercial lodging-house ’way down below Forty-second Street somewhere? Sure, I remember, now. I couldn’t tell you what they may sell in a place like that. I’ve always worked in first-class places. How did you say that drink is made?”
“Simply a little whiskey and a long dash of seltzer,” said Kearns, wearily.
“Oh!” answered the bartender airily; “that’s a Marquanna—called after the famous Marquis Marquanna.”
“Call it what you like,” said Kearns testily, “but serve it up; I’m parched with thirst. Give me Hunter whiskey.”
“What whiskey?”
“Hunter.”
“Never heard of it!”