“It’s delightful stuff,” he said. “It is really. Won’t you taste a little before you begin your sermon?”
But Ezekiel started back, gripping my left elbow, while the hair covering his face extended itself protectively.
“No, no,” he cried. “Augustus, keep close to me. I don’t like the smell of it. Ask him what it’s made of.”
I drew myself up a little, facing the naval officer, while Ezekiel clung to my elbow.
“You must pardon us,” I said, “but in addition to our connection with the Anti-Dramatic and Saltatory Union, we are also officials—and in this particular work, I hold a higher position than my comrade—we are also officials of the Society for the Prevention of the Strong Drink Traffic. It is therefore not only important to us, since we have been invited to rescue you, to learn whether this also is one of your vices, but doubly necessary that we ourselves should take every possible precaution. You will consequently perceive, I hope, the imperative necessity of our assuring ourselves, before we partake of it, that the composition of the liquor you have proffered us is such as our consciences can approve of.”
“Oh, I’m sure of it,” he said. “Just smell it.”
“Personally,” I replied, “I do not object to the smell.”
“And the taste,” he added, “is even pleasanter.”
“I can quite believe it,” I said. “But what is it made of?”
“Oh, just fruit,” said Miss Moonbeam. “It’s a sort of fruit squash, you know—a fruit squash, made of fruit.”