“Whah—whah! I got torpedoed by a submarine,” he said. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he added modestly. “I gave a little skin to help out a fellow in the electrical school.”
“What!” Eliza screamed. “How much did you give?”
“Oh, only a little six-inch strip,” he said carelessly. “The boy was badly burned: a bunch of us got together and chipped in with a little hide.”
“Mercy!” said Eliza. “You’ll be lame for life. It’s a wonder you can walk.”
“He always thinks of others—that boy!” said Gant proudly. “He’d give you his heart’s-blood.”
The sailor had secured an extra valise, and stocked it on the way home with a great variety of beverages for his father. There were several bottles of Scotch and rye whiskies, two of gin, one of rum, and one each of port and sherry wine.
Every one grew mildly convivial before the evening meal.
“Let’s give the poor kid a drink,” said Helen. “It won’t hurt him.”
“What! My ba-a-by! Why, son, you wouldn’t drink, would you?” Eliza said playfully.
“Wouldn’t he!” said Helen, prodding him. “Ho! ho! ho!”
She poured him out a stiff draught of Scotch whiskey.
“There!” she said cheerfully. “That’s not going to hurt him.”
“Son,” said Eliza gravely, balancing her wine-glass, “I don’t want you ever to acquire a taste for it.” She was still loyal to the doctrine of the good Major.
“No,” said Gant. “It’ll ruin you quicker than anything in the world, if you do.”
“You’re a goner, boy, if that stuff ever gets you,” said Luke. “Take a fool’s advice.”
They lavished fair warnings on him as he lifted his glass. He choked as the fiery stuff caught in his young throat, stopping his breath for a moment and making him tearful. He had drunk a few times before—minute quantities that his sister had given him at Woodson Street. Once, with Jim Trivett, he had fancied himself tipsy.
When they had eaten, they drank again. He was allowed a small
