don’t know it, that when I’ve drunk every drop of this and sucked the lemon, you’ll have had far more out of my bottle this evening than I have. My usual twice and—and my usual night-cap, as you say, is what’s my ration, and I’ve had no more than my ration. Eight Bells.”
“And a pretty good ration you’ve got there,” said the baffled Major. “Without your usual twice.”
Puffin was beginning to be aware of that as he swallowed the fiery mixture, but nothing in the world would now have prevented his drinking every single drop of it. It was clear to him, among so much that was dim owing to the wood-smoke, that the Major would miss a good many drives to-morrow morning.
“And whose whisky is it?” he said, gulping down the fiery stuff.
“I know whose it’s going to be,” said the other.
“And I know whose it is now,” retorted Puffin, “and I know whose whisky it is that’s filled you up ti’ as a drum. Tight as a drum,” he repeated very carefully.
Major Flint was conscious of an unusual activity of brain, and, when he spoke, of a sort of congestion and entanglement of words. It pleased him to think that he had drunk so much of somebody’s else whisky, but he felt that he ought to be angry.
“That’s a very unmentionable sor’ of thing to say,” he remarked. “An’ if it wasn’t for the sacred claims of hospitality, I’d make you explain just what you mean by that, and make you eat your words. Pologize, in fact.”
Puffin finished his glass at a gulp, and rose to his feet.
“Pologies be blowed,” he said. “Hittopopamus!”
“And were you addressing that to me?” asked Major Flint with deadly calm.
“Of course, I was. Hippot—same animal as before.
