Roberts: “No; that’s impossible, quite. I shouldn’t mind the association—though it isn’t very pleasant; but to offer drink to a man already—Do you suppose it would do to ask him out for a glass of soda? Plain soda would be good for him. Or I could order claret in it, if the worst came to the worst.”
Campbell: “Claret! What Mr. McIlheny requires is forty-rod whiskey in a solution of sulphuric acid. You must take that, or fourth-proof brandy straight, with him.”
Roberts, miserably: “I couldn’t; you know I couldn’t.”
Campbell: “What are you going to do, then?”
Roberts: “I don’t know; I don’t know. I—I’ll give him in charge to a policeman.”
Campbell: “And make a scandal here?”
Roberts: “Of course it can’t be done!”
Campbell: “Of course it can’t. Give a councilman in charge? The policeman will be Irish too, and then what’ll you do? You’re more likely to be carried off yourself, when the facts are explained. They’ll have an ugly look in the police report.”
Roberts: “Oh, it can’t be done! Nothing can be done! I wish Agnes would come!”
The Colored Man who calls the Trains: “Cars ready for South Framingham, Whitneys, East Holliston, Holliston, Metcalf’s, Braggville, and Milford. Express to Framingham. Milford Branch. Track No. 3.”