The younger thought the suggestion a good one and they turned toward the house of old Sanders.
It was a neat, red brick, two-story house, well in from the street, off the line of the more pretentious buildings on either side. As the old man opened the iron gate, the police officer on the beat passed; he peered into the faces of the men, and recognizing Sanders, said, “tough night, sir.”
“Very,” replied the addressed.
“All good old gentlemen should be in bed at this hour,” said the officer, lifting one foot after the other in an effort to keep warm, and in so doing showing little terpsichorean grace.
“It’s only the shank of the evening, officer,” rejoined the old man, as he fumbled with the latch key and finally opened the door. The two men entered and the officer passed on.
Every man has a fad. One will tell you he sees nothing in billiards or pool or golf or tennis, but will grow enthusiastic over the scientific possibilities of mumble-peg; you agree with him, only you substitute “skittles” for “mumble-peg.”
Old Sanders’ fad was mixing toddies and punches.
“The nectar of the gods pales into nothingness when compared with a toddy such as I make,” said he. “Ambrosia may have been all right for the degenerates of the old Grecian and Roman days, but an American gentleman demands a toddy—a hot toddy.” And then he proceeded with circumspection and dignity to demonstrate the process of decocting that mysterious beverage.
The two men took off their overcoats and went into the sitting-room. A pile of logs burned brightly in the fire-place. The old man threw another on the burning heap, filled the kettle with water and hung it over the fire. Next he went to the sideboard and brought forth the various ingredients for the toddy.
“How do you like America?” said the elder, with commonplace indifference, as he crunched a lump of sugar in the bottom of the glass, dissolving the particles with a few drops of water.