Once I myself had the privilege of tasting the wine of Mynheer Van der Cuyp. It was a dark and heavy liquor, pouring like oil, rich of aroma, searching the veins with subdued fire. Perhaps few of Doctor Vardaman's guests could appreciate that marvellous flavour; at any rate Teddy was the only one to express a clamorous approval:
"Pretty goo' for ol' Chickencoop! Give us s'more, Huddesley!"
And Huddesley stolidly gave him some more, oblivious to signs. It is with great reluctance that this historian enters a record of the disgraceful scene—but the thing must be done. The horrid tale of Mynheer Van der Cuyp's wine cannot be omitted. Of course, no man who reads about Doctor Vardaman's banquet has ever so far forgot himself as to get drunk, not even when he was a boy; he always had the strength of character to resist that beastly temptation. And any woman knows very well that instead of an assemblage of fairly decent and manly young fellows, the doctor's guests were all low, swilling louts and boors. So be it; it is true that they turned out, as years went on, to be tolerable citizens most of them, good husbands, fathers of families for whom they toiled honestly and provided handsomely—but all that has nothing to do with the matter in hand.
J. B. bounced up with great, even unnecessary vigour, crying out: "Oh, this has got to be stopped—one of you fellows take it away from him!"
"No use now, Breck," said Archie dolefully. "That jag will last till morning."
"Jag yourself!" said Teddy epigrammatically, if somewhat indistinctly.
"Take away his glass, I say!"
"Shan't either," said Teddy, grasping it unsteadily. "J. B., for shame! You're drunk——" He got to his feet wavering; everybody was up by this time. "Doc' Vardaman, 'pol'gise—J. B.'s condition—sorry——" He tried to carry the glass to his lips, failed, and it crashed on the floor. Teddy stood swaying, he smiled benevolently upon the doctor, "Sorry," he murmured.
"Look out! Hold him up!"
"Huddesley——"