“Ninety-five drachmæ,” said Orosdi, placing his plump hand on the thin, vein-corded hand of his father.
The older man smiled.
“You are the son of my father,” he said, enigmatically. Then he added, reminiscently: “He always began with half the price he was willing to pay. We will talk of this to-morrow.”
“No, no. It is pleasant here. Let us finish the business now.”
He turned aside and called to the keeper of the inn outside which they were sitting. A dirty creature limped from the dark interior to the doorway.
“You have my bottle of whisky there, is it not so? Well, open it. And bring two clean glasses.”
His father started a little.
“’Tis an old trick,” observed he. “You would make me drunk and then buy from me? I would rather give you the mules than that you should do that.”
“Father, I brought the whisky for you because ... because, well, you know why.” He looked affectionately at his parent.
The old man, gazing at his handsome son, felt his eyes becoming moist. An impulse overswept him.