George gave a feverish laugh.
"I was only kidding, of course," he said.
"Kidding, Mr. Finch?"
"When I said that you could get it here. You can't, of course. What Guiseppe is bringing me is ginger-ale."
"Indeed?"
"And my name isn't Finch," babbled George. "It—it is—er—Briskett. And I don't live in that apartment up there, I live in...."
He was aware of Guiseppe at his side. And Guiseppe was being unspeakably furtive and conspiratorial with a long glass and a coffee-pot. He looked like one of the executive staff of the Black Hand plotting against the public weal.
"Is that my ginger-ale?" twittered George. "My ginger-ale, is that what you've got there?"
"Yes, sare. Your ginger-ale. Your ginger-ale, Mr. Feench, ha, ha, ha! You are vairy fonny gentleman," said Guiseppe approvingly.
George could have kicked the man. If this was what the modern Italian was like, no wonder the country had had to have a dictatorship.