After I had finished my lunch, Parton exhibited two fine pipes and invited me to join him in a smoke.
"Excuse my oversight. There's not a drop of wine left in this decanter," he said, after examining it.
"No matter," I returned. "I never drink wine."
"Tut, tut, man! you miss half your life. Now, I have a very choice collection of wines. Come, I'll give you a peep at my vaults."
He arose as he spoke and took up a candle. I had no interest whatever in wines, but I accompanied him.
Descending to the lower hallway, we passed through a long, dreary room, then down narrow stone steps into a capacious cellar, walled on every side with heavy masonry.
The place was damp and musty. Dust and cobwebs covered the casks and bottles that littered the whole end of the cellar. My host did not halt till we reached a heavy iron door fastened with a large, rusty padlock. I noticed a demoniacal expression on Parton's face, as he held the light close enough to the lock to examine it.
"No, it's never been meddled with," he remarked with a chuckle. "Ten years is a very long time for a man to live on wine—but he was very fond of wine—very—ha, ha!"
I looked at Parton in amazement, much puzzled as to the import of his strange words and manner.
He turned to me with a quick gesture.