"Bread and butter, cocoanut balls and ginger-ale."
"Get out the ginger-ale."
"But it is your luncheon," deprecated Flint.
"No, it isn't—it is your medicine. Try it."
Flint pressed the iron spring, and poured down the spluttering liquid, striving to conceal his wry face.
"Bully, ain't it?" exclaimed Jim, not without a tinge of regret for lost joys in his tone.
"Excellent!" returned Flint, perjuring himself like a gentleman.
"It is better than nothing," Miss Fred answered judicially. "I will send Jim up to the inn with some brandy; Marsden's stuff is rank poison. I had some once this summer when [Pg 33] I was ill, and straightway sent off to town for a private supply. If you feel able to exercise, I should advise you to let us put you off at this point, and make a run across country to Marsden's."
"I don't know how to thank you," Flint murmured as Jimmy pulled the row-boat up, and the young man prepared to climb in after him.
"There is no occasion for thanks. But if you insist on a debit and credit account, please charge it off against the ruin of your fishing-rod."