“Your prayer is answered, Olive. Some one is coming and it looks very much like our uncle.” She waved her hand to the old gentleman, who was beating his way with his stick through the underbrush.
Zelda placed a chair for him.
“Why didn’t you tell me about that jungle? When you said it was a quarter of a mile from the interurban, I didn’t know you were joking. And bad luck to your interurban cars, anyhow.”
They offered him things to eat, drink and smoke.
“I should like a little whisky and water. I suppose you have the water.”
“And we have the whisky, too.” Zelda brought a decanter and a glass and watched him expectantly as he poured a quantity. Olive, too, leaned forward with a twinkle in her eyes.
Merriam smelled the whisky carefully; then he held up the glass and tipped it, noting the thickness of the reddish fluid, which left a distinct trace on the side of the tumbler. He raised it to his lips and sipped it critically, while his eyes looked far off into some unknown haven of Arcadia. He next poured a drop into his palm and watched it evaporate, saying nothing. Then he drained the glass and placed it on the flat arm of the chair.
“How did you do it?” he demanded.
“Do what, mon oncle?”
“Get that whisky?”