I poured two and we drank to that.
"May we all someday find our bells," Joy said with emotion, and I was delighted to find my wife a girl of such deep sentiment. "Pour me another."
I did. "Your quotation was wrong, sweetheart," I said. "Don't you mean, 'May we all find our Shangri-La?'"
"Of course. Let's drink to it."
We drank to it and were rudely interrupted by the barkeep who said, "I hope you got some dough. That stuff ain't water."
I gave him a ten-dollar bill and—with a heavy heart—turned to Uncle Peter. "Come, Uncle," I said gently. "We might as well get it over with."
"Get what over with?"
"Our trip to the police station. You must give yourself up of course."
"What for?"
I shook my head sadly. Uncle Peter would never fry. His mind was obviously out of joint. "For murder."