Soon after this Major Flint came rambling round the table again. He was not sure whether Puffin had put the bottle by his chair or behind the coal-scuttle, and was quite ignorant of the fact that wherever it was, it was empty. Amorous reminiscences to-night had been the accompaniment to Puffin’s second tumbler.
“Devilish fine woman she was,” he said, “and that was the last that Benjamin Flint ever saw of her. She went up to the hills next morning—”
“But the last you saw of her just now was on the deck of the P. and O. at Bombay,” objected Puffin. “Or did she go up to the hills on the deck of the P. and O.? Wonderful line!”
“No, sir,” said Benjamin Flint, “that was Helen, la belle Hélène. It was la belle Hélène whom I saw off at the Apollo Bunder. I don’t know if I told you—By Gad, I’ve kicked the bottle over. No idea you’d put it there. Hope the cork’s in.”
“No harm if it isn’t,” said Puffin, beginning on his third most fiery glass. The strength of it rather astonished him.
“You don’t mean to say it’s empty?” asked Major Flint. “Why just now there was close on a quarter of a bottle left.”
“As much as that?” asked Puffin. “Glad to hear it.”
“Not a drop less. You don’t mean to say—Well, if you can drink that and can say hippopotamus afterwards, I should put that among your challenges, to men of four hundred and two: I should say forty-two. It’s a fine thing to have a strong head, though if I drank what you’ve got in your glass, I should be tipsy, sir.”
Puffin laughed in his irritating falsetto manner.
“Good thing that it’s in my glass then, and not your glass,” he said. “And lemme tell you, Major, in case you
