“What does all this mean?” asked Minchin as the baskets were safely stowed away.
“A liberty I have taken,” said Philip. “I want you and Mr. O’Hara to lunch with me to-day, as I dined with you yesterday.”
“O’Hara,” exclaimed Minchin, “what shall we do with this dog? Pitch him into the lake, hampers and all?”
“I should say not,” laughed the other.
“'My foot is on my native heath,’” cried Redmond; and, taking an oar, a pull of twenty minutes keel-grated them upon a silvery strand beneath the shady foliage of a gigantic horse-chestnut tree.
“A lobster-salad, George!” cried Minchin, unloading the basket. “A chicken-pie, Jupiter! A magmain of salmon! Why, hang it, man! this never was raised at the Derralossory Arms.”
“How was it done?” asked O’Hara.
“I sent a man into Dublin for it.”
“Ah!” with a long-drawn breath of admiration. “You Americans do things in the right way.”
“By the nine gods! champagne,” ejaculated Minchin as he extracted the golden-necked bottles from their wicker cradles. “Heidsieck extra dry. I am extra dry too. Per Bacco, Redmond! you are the son of an Irish king.”