CHAPTER IV
THE PROMISE FULFILLED
"IT was alcohol! He was right, that old buck. It was alcohol!"
We were sitting in the restaurant of the Hotel Terminus in Marseilles. Our month-old baby was lying on the cushioned seat between us. The maître d'hôtel told us she was the youngest lady that had ever come to his establishment. Bowls of coffee were before us on the table, and we were enjoying our French breakfast when Herbert burst out with the remark I have just recorded.
"What is the matter with you?" I asked.
Shaking with laughter, he told me the story.
"You know the basket with breakables in it? And those two champagne bottles Major Doughty-Wylie gave us?"
"One of them had boracic acid in it. Well?"
"Yes, yes, that is just it. The customshouse officer spied the bottles and it did not take him long to uncork one and smell it. He wanted to stick me for duty."
"What did you do?"
"Protested against paying duty on boracic acid solution. I pointed you out to him sitting over there with the baby. He yielded finally—observing that Americans are queer, tough customers, and that their babies must be husky if their eyes can stand such stuff. But he got the wrong bottle. Don't you remember that in the second one is pure grape alcohol, and that is what he sniffed."