It cost me a dollar to bring the dish-dragger back to earth, and Stevie said I could break his bank open when we got home and take all the money if I'd let him do it again.
Just then I got a flash of Dike Lawrence bearing down in our direction under a full head of benzine.
Dike was escorting a three days' jag and whispering words of encouragement to it.
A good fellow, Dike, but he shouldn't permit a distillery to use his thirst as a testing station—he's too temperamental.
"H'ar'ye, Mrs. John?" he gurgled as the waiter pushed an extra chair under him. "Howdy, John? How de do, little man! 'Scuse me for int'rupting a perf'ly splendid family party—my mistake!—I'm all in—that's it—I'm all in and it's your fault, John; all your fault!"
"What's wrong, Dike?" I inquired.
"Ev'thing!" he martinied; "ev'thing all wrong—lesh have drink—my mistake—didn't think of it before. Your little son growing to be a splendid boy, Mrs. John!"
"This is Stephen, my little brother, not my little son," Peaches explained; "we haven't any children," she added nervously.
Dike carefully closed one eye and focussed the other on her. "Haven't any little son—my mistake!" Then he turned the open gig-lamp on me and began again. "S'prised at you, John; little son is the most won'erful thing any father and mother could possess with the possible 'ception of a li'l daughter—ain't that so, Mrs. John? Little brother is all right, but don't compare with little son. Look at me, Mrs. John; can't ever have little son—when I think about it I could bust right out cryin'—Grief has made me almost hystalical, hystorical, hystollified—I mean, I'm nervous—lesh have drink!"
"What's gone wrong, Dike?" I asked; "each minute you look more and more like Mona Lisa without the smile—what's the trouble?"