“I held the door too fast for her, and a miss is as good as a mile, eh, guv’nor? I say, old man, don’t you think we might wet it?”
The butler smiled blandly.
“Well, just one glass wouldn’t be amiss, my boy. What shall it be?”
“Can’t beat a glass o’ port, old man. What do you say?”
“I say ditto, my dear boy,” and the butler, smiling, drew out his keys, unlocked a cupboard, lifted out a cobwebby bottle with a dab of whitewash on its end, and with a great deal of ceremony drew the cork, while Arthur fetched and gave a finishing touch to a couple of glasses as the cork was presented to him.
But it was only to smell, and Arthur inhaled the fragrance and sighed. Then the rich wine came gurgling out into the glasses, and these latter were raised.
“Well, old man, here’s success to speculation,” said Arthur.
“Suck-cess to speculation,” said the butler, and the glasses were slowly drained. Lips were smacked and the glasses refilled. “A very fine wine, Orthur.”
“Tip-top. How much is there of it?”
“Over six hundred dozen, my lad.”