Mr. Iff wagged his head. “Believe me,” said he simply.
Staff fetched a decanter of Scotch and a glass, placing them on the table by Iff’s elbow, then turned away to get a siphon of charged water from the icebox. But by the time he was back a staggering amount of whiskey had disappeared from the decanter, a moist but empty glass stood beside it, and Mr. Iff was stroking smiling lips with his delicate, claw-like fingers. He discontinued this occupation long enough to wave the siphon away.
“Not for me,” he said tersely. “I’ve swallowed enough water this night to last me for the rest of my life—half of the North River, more or less; rather more, if you ask me.”
“What were you doing in the North River?”
“Swimming.”
This answer was evidently so adequate in Mr. Iff’s understanding that he made no effort to elaborate upon it; so that presently, growing impatient, Staff felt called upon to ask:
“Well? What were you swimming for?”
“Dear life,” said Iff—“life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness: the incontestable birthright of every freeborn American citizen—if you must know.”
He relapsed into a reverie which seemed hugely diverting from the reminiscent twinkle in the little man’s eyes. From this he emerged long enough to remark: “That’s prime whiskey, you know.... Thanks very much, I will.” And again fell silent, stroking his lips.
“I don’t want to seem to pry,” said Staff at length, with elaborate irony; “but in view of the fact that you’ve felt warranted in calling on me via the fire-escape at one A.M., it doesn’t seem unreasonable of me to expect some sort of an explanation.”