"Strong drink," added the judge.
"Pooh!" again breathed Winona. "A little nip of something when you're done up."
"You talking that way!" admonished the twice-poohed parent. "You that was always so——"
"I'm not it any longer." She did a dance step toward the front door, but called back to him: "Spike's set his heart on that chair. You'll have to find something else for yourself."
"'Twon't always be so," retorted the judge, stung beyond reason at the careless finality of her last words. "You wait—wait till the revolution sweeps you high and mighty people out of your places! Wait till the workers take over their rights—you wait!"
But Winona had not waited. She had gone to confer on Wilbur Cowan a few precious drops of that which had caused her father to put upon her the stigma of alcoholic intemperance.
"It's real genuine dandelion wine," she told him. "One of the nurses got it for me when we left the boat in Boston. Her own mother made it, and she gave me the recipe, and it isn't a bit of trouble. I'm going after dandelions to-morrow, Spike and I. Of course we'll have to be secret about it."
In the sacred precincts of the Penniman parlour Wilbur Cowan raised the wineglass to his lips and tasted doubtingly. After a second considering sip he announced—"They can't arrest you for that."
Winona looked a little relieved, but more than a little disappointed.
"I thought it had a kick," she mourned.