He smiled satisfactorily. He flecked some cotton lint from his coat sleeve.
“I have had a hard time in the mill to-day. It's a beastly business robbing the poor little half-made-up devils.”
He rang for Aunt Charity. She knew what he wished, and soon came in bringing him his cocktail—his night-cap as she always called it,—only of late he had required several in an evening,—a thing that set the old woman to quarreling with him, for she knew the limit of a gentleman. And, in truth, she was proud of her cocktails. They were made from a recipe given by Andrew Jackson. For fifty years Cook-mother Charity had made one every night and brought it to “old marster” before he retired. Now she proudly brought it to his grandson.
“Oh, say Mammy,” he said as the old woman started out—“Carpenter will be here directly with his report. Bring another pair of these in—we will want them.”
The old woman bristled up. “To be sure, I'll fix 'em, honey. He'll not know the difference. But the licker he gits in his'n will come outen the bottle we keep for the hosses when they have the colic. The bran' we keep for gem'men would stick in his th'oat.”
Travis laughed: “Well—be sure you don't get that horse brand in mine.”