“You bet! We’re crazy about it.”
“Are you sure? It’s no trouble to—Well, this is ginger-ale, anyway. I’m awfully sorry!”
“What do we care?” asked Ned. “We don’t own it.”
“Don’t own it?” repeated Polly, in a puzzled tone.
“That’s just an expression of his,” explained Laurie. “He’s awfully slangy. I try to break him of it, but it’s no use. It’s fierce.”
“Of course you don’t use slang?” asked Polly, demurely. “Who wants the root-beer?”
“You take it,” said Laurie, hurriedly.
“No, you,” said Ned. “You’re fonder of it than I am, Laurie. I don’t mind, really!”
Laurie managed a surreptitious kick on his brother’s shin. “Tell you what,” he exclaimed, “we’ll mix ’em!”
Ned agreed, though not enthusiastically, and with the aid of a third glass the deed was done. The boys tasted experimentally, each asking a question over the rim of his glass. Then looks of relief came over both faces and they sighed ecstatically.