“Here’s to the lass in every port,
And here’s to the port-wine in every lass,
But those tall thoughts don’t matter, sport,
For God’s sake, waiter, fill my glass!”
The little man wriggled. “Well, sir, I never did hear that one! Say, that’s a knock-out! By golly, that certainly is a knock-out! Say, Elm, whacha doing in Monarch? Wancha meet some of the boys. The Pequot conference don’t really start till Monday, but some of us boys thought we’d kind of get together today and hold a little service of prayer and fasting before the rest of the galoots assemble. Like you to meet ’em. Best bunch of sports you ever saw, lemme tell you that! I’d like for you to meet ’em. And I’d like ’em to hear that toast. ‘Here’s to the port-wine in every lass.’ That’s pretty cute, all right! Whacha doing in Monarch? Can’t you come around to the Ishawonga Hotel and meet some of the boys when we get in?”
Mr. Ad Locust was not drunk; not exactly drunk; but he had earnestly applied himself to the Bourbon and he was in a state of superb philanthropy. Elmer had taken enough to feel reasonable. He was hungry, too, not only for alcohol but for unsanctimonious companionship.
“I’ll tell you, Ad,” he said. “Nothing I’d like better, but I’ve got to meet a guy—important dealer—this afternoon, and he’s dead against all drinking. Fact—I certainly do appreciate your booze, but don’t know’s I ought to have taken a single drop.”
“Oh, hell, Elm, I’ve got some throat pastilles that are absolutely guaranteed to knock out the smell—absolutely. One lil drink wouldn’t do us any harm. Certainly would like to have the boys hear that toast of yours!”
“Well, I’ll sneak in for a second, and maybe I can foregather with you for a while late Sunday evening or Monday morning, but—”
“Aw, you ain’t going to let me down, Elm?”