Once upon a time—this, as the sequel will show, was before prohibition came—the Palm Beach Flier, northbound, was compelled by reason of a wreck ahead to detour over a side line. When the passengers on the Pullmans awoke in the morning they found the train halted for an indefinite stop at a small settlement set among the scrub oaks, jack pines and dwarf palmettos of interior Florida. Next only to the tiny station the most important looking structure in sight was an unpainted frame shack facing the tracks. Over its doorway, in awkward capitals, was lettered this imposing promise:
NEW YORK BAR.
ALL KINDS OF FANCY DRINKS SERVED HERE.
Reading this sign, two Easterners on board one of the sleeping cars were seized with a waggish idea. They left their stateroom and, crossing the rails, entered the establishment.
Its interior decorations were exceedingly simple. At the front was a broad, unpainted board, supported on two barrels. Behind this barrier, against the wall, a small bleared mirror hung. On either side of the mirror, upon a narrow shelf, stood a black bottle, flanked by a meagre store of smeary toddy glasses. Beneath it was a beer keg, resting upon the floor on its side.
In the rear was a small rusty stove. The air being chilly, a fire of pine knots blazed in it. A lanky individual, plainly the proprietor, sat in a broken chair close up to the stove with his bare feet in the warm ashes, reading a tattered copy of a Jacksonville paper.
He did not raise his head as the strangers entered, nor did they hail him. They lined up side by side before the makeshift bar and one of them, addressing space, said:
“Seeing that they serve all sorts of fancy drinks here, I’ll have a gin rickey. What are you going to take?” he added, addressing his fellow joker.
“Well,” said the other, “I think I’ll take a dry martini cocktail, made with French vermouth.”
Without shifting his position or lifting his eyes from his paper the proprietor now spoke: