“But, good God, sir, there’s no such thing.”
“Precisely,” I replied. “That’s my point.”
“Your point?” he cried. “What do you mean by your point?”
“Why, that I was refreshed,” I said, “and subsequently disabled by a beverage that has no existence.”
“Then you’re a fool,” he said. “You’re either a knave, sir—a drunken knave—or a fool.”
“Then am I to understand,” I said, “that I am no longer show-room manager?”
“You’re no longer anything,” he said, “in any business of mine.”
I leaned against the wall.
“And you call yourself a Xtian gentleman?” I said.
“I certainly do,” he said, “and I thank God for it.”