But I'm something of a Mr. Fox myself on rare occasions, and I couldn't see Lionel doing a two-step through the farm lands with my Esmeralda—not through the opera glasses.
Clara Jane introduced me to His Pinkness and he invited us in the clubhouse to throttle our thirsts.
I ordered a rickey, Clara Jane called for a lemonade, and Lionel's guess was a pail of Vichy and milk.
When the suds rolled up I gave the Vichy stuff the sad eye and Lionel caught the gaze.
I could see that he wanted to back pedal right then, but he waited until the next round and then he waded out among the high boys.
It was the bluff of his life.
His limit on bug bitters was imported ginger ale with a piece of lime in it.
When he was out roystering and didn't care what became of him he would tell the bartender to add a dash of phosphates.
But now he made up his mind to splash around in the tide waters just because the lady was looking on.
Lionel felt that the future was at stake and he must cut out the saw-dust extracts and get busy with the grown-up booze.