Thompson threw back his head with a hearty laugh.
“If you mean will a bit of our ale with your dinner make you drunk. I’ll say no.” He eyed him with a quizzical twinkle. “You’d like some?”
“Frederick!” Buffum frowned his disapproval. He was three-fourths Massachusetts Puritan and he felt an older man’s responsibility.
But the Englishman spread his hands and reasoned.
“This is a test, Friend Buffum. Here is a newcomer to England. He observes that ale is a national drink. He asks why?” He leaned forward. “How can he speak of the temptations of any kind of drink if he has never even tasted ale? Be logical, man!” Frederick was certain that one eye winked. He grinned and looked anxiously at the Secretary of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society. By now he really wanted some ale. Buffum had to laugh, if weakly. He clucked his tongue and shook his head.
“Frederick, Frederick! What would the folks at home say?”
Thompson was signaling to the waiter to bring them a large ale.
“That,” he said sagely, as he turned back to his companions, “is something history will not record!” He looked at Frederick’s broad, rather solemn face and raised his eyebrows. “But I am of the opinion that a single wild oat sown by our young friend will do him no great harm.”
The boy came up, bearing three huge, foaming mugs, having interpreted the order as he thought right. He set the mugs down with a thump, scattering the suds in every direction, and departed before anyone could say “Jack Robinson!”
“Well”—Thompson shook with laughter—“it seems our young friend here is not going to sow his oats alone. So be it!” He raised his mug high in the air and led off.