“Well, come on in,” Transley beckoned, leading the way. “Dinner will be ready sharp on time twenty minutes late. Not being a married man, Grant, you will not understand that reckoning. You’ll have to excuse Mrs. Transley a few minutes; she’s holding down the accelerator in the kitchen. Come in; I want you to meet Squiggs.”
Squiggs proved to be a round man with huge round tortoise-shell glasses and round red face to match. He shook hands with a manner that suggested that in doing so he was making rather a good fellow of himself.
“We must have a little lubrication, for Y.D.‘s sake,” said Transley, producing a bottle and glasses. “I suppose it was the dust on the plains that gave these old cow punchers a thirst which never can be slaked. These be evil days for the old-timers. Grant?”
“Not any, thanks.”
“No? Well, there’s no accounting for tastes. Squiggs?”
“I’m a lawyer,” said Squiggs, “and as booze is now ultra vires I do my best to keep it down,” and Mr. Squiggs beamed genially upon his pleasantry and the full glass in his hand.
“I take a snort when I want it and I don’t care who knows it,” said Y.D. “I al’us did, and I reckon I’ll keep on to the finish. It didn’t snuff me out in my youth and innocence, anyway. Just the same, I’m admittin’ it’s bad medicine in onskilful hands. Here’s ho!”
The glasses had just been drained when Mrs. Transley entered the room, flushed but radiant from a strenuous half hour in the kitchen.
“Well, here you are!” she exclaimed. “So glad you could come, Mr. Grant. Why, Mr. Linder! Of all people—This IS a pleasure. And Mr.—?”
“Mr. Murdoch,” Transley supplied.