“Ha!” said the Colonel; “you have forgotten the wine, rascals!”
“Bring a dozen bottles,” Maurice suggested, having an idea in mind.
“Eh?”
“Remember, Colonel, I've been a soldier and a journalist in a country where they only wash with water. In the summer we have whisky iced, in the winter we have it hot; an antidote for both heat and cold. Ah, Colonel, if you only might sniff a mint julep!”
“A dozen bottles, then,” said the Colonel to the servants, who retired to execute the order.
“How old will it be?” asked Maurice.
“Twice your age, my son. But do not make any miscalculation about my capacity for tokayer.”
“Any miscalculation?” Maurice echoed.
“Yes; if you plan to get me drunk. There are no troopers about, and it would be easy enough for you to slip out if I should lose my head.”
Maurice's laugh had a false ring to it. The Colonel had made a very shrewd guess.