Then we lit up and reached home at ten o’clock.
The Angel and the Cherub met me at the gate, scared to death.
“So glad you’re safe,” she cried, kissing me. “I know you’ve got a full bag—you’ve never failed, and, oh, Dearie, I’ve invited a dozen ladies over to-morrow for lunch, promising quail on toast—so I do hope nothing has happened.”
By this time the Cherub was climbing over me, shouting: “Daddy, show me old Bob White—show me old Brer Rabbit.”
The bitterness of it went into me.
“Quail on toast?” I cried with sarcasm. “Change it now, my dear; write them all a note at once and tell them tom-cat is better, for it’s all I’ve killed to-day. Just make it tom-cat on toast.”
I left her crying and saying she believed I had taken a drink. But that was false—to keep from suiciding, I had drunk the whole flask!
Trotwood.