Poor
Hatch,--setting down there in the parlour,--listening to her talk
about birds and flowers and trying to help her guess what she's
going to give him for next Christmas. It's hell to be a bachelor,
Court."
He unlocked a trunk in the corner of the room, and after lifting
out two trays produced a half empty whiskey bottle.
"I had a dozen of these to begin with," said he, holding the bottle
up to the light. "Dollar sixty a quart. Quite a nifty little stock,
eh?"
"Is that all you have left?"
Charlie scratched his ear reflectively.
"Well, you see, I've had a good deal of toothache lately," he
announced. "And as soon as Doc Simpson and Hatch found out about
it, they begin to complain about their teeth achin' too. Seemed
to be a sort of epidemic of toothache, Court. Nothing like whiskey
for the toothache, you know."
"But Simpson is a dentist. Why don't you have him treat your teeth?"
"Seems as though he'd sooner have me treat his," said Charlie, with
a slight grimace. Rummaging about in the top tray of the trunk,
he produced a couple of bar glasses, which he carefully rinsed at
the washstand. "Tastes better when you drink it out of a regular
glass," he explained. "Always seems sort of cowardly to me to take
it with water,--almost as if you were trying to drown it so's it
won't be able to bite back when you tackle it. Needn't mind sayin'
'when' The glass holds just so much, and I know enough to stop when
it begins to run over.
Pages:
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101