Mr. Bailey's face was genial, his eyes bright as ever, his whiskers as healthy and florid as though he had but just completed his morning toilet. With his hands in his pockets he looked down on his abashed servitor and said pleasantly:
"How drunk you are to-night, Zachary!" He then added as Zachary's hat fell to the floor: "I hope that's your hat, Zachary, and not mine!"
Zachary said "Yes, sir," with painful clarity of intonation.
"You come in here, Zachary," said Mr. Bailey, opening the door of the study. "I want to talk to you. Sit down in that chair, a long way from the fire."
Zachary did as he was bid: Mr. Bailey shut him in, went to the kitchen stairs and roared down them:
"Jane-bring-me-up-a-cup-of-very-hot-coffee-with-no-sugar-in-it-at-once-I-don't-want-to-be-kept-waiting-in-the-study!" For such was Mr. Bailey's method of delivering an order in person on the rare occasions when he put himself to that inconvenience. The consequence of that method was that hardly had he joined Zachary in the study when Jane appeared, purple in the face, with a large cup of coffee which contained no trace of sugar, and which was extremely hot. The moment she was out of the room Mr. Bailey solemnly dropped a pinch of salt into the coffee and said to his miserable servant:
"Drink that!"
"I do assure you, sir—" said Zachary in tones of increasing sobriety.
"Drink that, you ass," said Mr. Bailey, "do you suppose I don't know what's good for you?"
"Yes, sir, certainly sir," said Zachary humbly. He gulped the coffee down, and when he had done so began: "It's not near seven, sir."