Scott raised the glass. The fluid had the odor of anise-seed, and was not at all disagreeable. The taste, too, was rather pleasant at first, and Scott drank it off. Laybold followed his example. We must do them the justice to say that neither of them knew what “finkel” was. Something like strangulation followed the swallowing of the fluid.
“That’s not bad,” said Scott, trying to make the best of it.
“No, not bad, Scott; but what are you crying about?” replied the other, when he recovered the use of his tongue.
“I happened to think of an old aunt of mine, who died and left me all her money,” added Scott, wiping his eyes. “But you needn’t cry; she didn’t leave any of the money to you.”
“What are you going to eat?”
“I generally eat victuals,” replied Scott, picking up a slice of bread on which was laid a very thin slice of smoked salmon. “That’s not bad.”
The waiter passed to Laybold a small plate of sandwiches, filled with a kind of fish-spawn, black and shining. The student took a huge bite of one of them, but a moment elapsed before he realized the taste of the interior of the sandwich; then, with the ugliest face a boy could assume, he rushed to the door, and violently ejected the contents of his mouth into the street.
“What’s the matter?” demanded the waiter, struggling to keep from laughing.
“What abominably nasty stuff!” exclaimed Laybold. “It’s just like fish slime.”
“Don’t you like it, Laybold?” asked Scott, coolly.