Then, in a few minutes, the young man Ted came in, mixing as it seemed to me a cocktail—or what might pass for a cocktail in Yorkshire. He stood in front of me, wineglass in hand, and poured a clear liquid on to a brown one, cautiously and professionally.
“Tell me when to stop,” he said.
“That’s not for me?” I queried. And I wondered if it was perhaps a custom to bring guests an unsolicited cocktail as a ritual of welcome. Yorkshire has its festive ways.
But the boy stopped stirring and pouring, and looked at me.
“It must have been somebody else,” he remarked, and turned to the red-faced landlady.
She faced me. “Yes,” she said hoarsely, “you ordered the room.”
Then the truth dawned on me.
“I asked for a room,” said I.
“Well, here it is,” said the young man.
“Not a rum, but a room! Room! Room!” I exclaimed.