Mr. Arnold laughed hoarsely.
“A fine way to preserve the food!” he said. “A Democrat ought to know that when a man’s drinking he ain’t got no time to eat. I remember one time eight years ago last fifth of May,” he added. “I went on the waterwagon four days at that time, and I eat like a bay horse.”
“You don’t get the point,” said the other. “The stuff that liquor is made out of is the stuff that could be made into food if it wasn’t made into liquor. And we’re going to be up against it for stuff to eat during war-times, so the President’s going to help preserve the food by cutting out the liquor.”
“But,” objected Mr. Arnold, “why should he cut out a necessity, like drinking, to preserve eating, that’s just a habit?”
“They’s more people that eats than there is that drinks,” said Mr. Fisher, for that was his name.
“Now you’re talking wild,” said Mr. Arnold. “If that’s true, why is there more saloons than restaurants?”
“Because people don’t eat all day.”
“Of course not! They’s no fun in it.”
And as they had reached the ballpark, Mr. Arnold rose and left the car, an easy winner in the argument.
But neither Mr. Arnold’s victory nor the game pleased him, and at the end of three innings he got up and walked out, worried for the first time in eight years.
“I must find some fella I can trust,” he said to himself. “I must find out if it’s true.” And he boarded a car for his first post-pastime local stop.
Eddie, the barkeeper, and two ticker-fans observed his entrance with surprise.
“Well, Jay,” said the former, “what’s the idear? Wasn’t it going to suit you?”
“They’s other things besides baseball,” said Mr. Arnold shortly.
“Yes,” agreed Eddie, “but this ain’t no time to quit—not when old Commy’s got the best club he’s had in years.”
Mr. Arnold appeared not to be listening.
“You look like an undertaker,” said Eddie. “What about a shot?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Mr. Arnold, and he helped himself from the bottle placed before him. “Eddie,” he said, lowering his voice, “what’s this bunk I been hearing?”
“You mean about Commy getting another manager?”
“No!” said Mr. Arnold. “But I was reading in the paper where Wilson’s going to stop the liquor-business to preserve the food.”
“Sure,” replied Eddie. “It’s bound to come.”
“When?”
“Most any time. But we figure it’ll be about the first of September.”
“The paper I seen it in,” said Mr. Arnold, “talked like it was liable to happen any morning.”
“They’s no telling,” said Eddie.
“Maybe it’ll come tomorrow morning,” said Mr. Arnold.
“They’s no telling,” said Eddie cruelly. “But we don’t know if they’re going to cut it all out or not. They’re talking about barring just the heavy stuff and letting us keep on selling the stuff that ain’t as much as ten percent dynamite.”
“What would that leave?”
“Well, beer and a few of the very light wines.”
“This stuff’s bound to go?” asked Jay, pointing to his glass.
“Sure as one o’clock,” said Eddie.
“And cocktails and those things?”
“All of them.”
“Put me up two bottles of that rye,” said Mr. Arnold.
On the way downtown Mr. Arnold reached a decision, Never in his life had he tasted a cocktail; never had his finely chiseled lips touched the edge of a cordial-glass. It was not fair to himself to die without knowing all there was to know of alcoholic delights. He had seen their hilarious results in dozens of his friends, but rye and its two or three cousins had been his special study. He would take a full course tonight. He would be a graduate with an M.A. degree before tomorrow’s dawn and the President’s facile signature had taken the joy out of life.
“Ben,” he said to his favorite at Carney’s, “what kind of cocktails is they?”
“Oh, they’s a raft of them,” said Ben, “—Manhattan, Bronx, Clover Leaf, Sazarac, Southern Comfort, rum—oh, a raft of them!”
“Mix them up for me,” said Mr. Arnold.
“You could do it quicker with chloroform,” said Ben.
“Don’t try and kid somebody,” said Mr. Arnold. “As long as I got the money, I guess I can get what I order.”
“Sure you can,” agreed the gentleman on the sane side of the mahogany. “But we don’t want nobody dying on our hands, and that’s what’d happen to you if you tried to put away all them things at once.”
“I don’t want them all at once,” said Mr. Arnold. “I want them one at a time, in succession. While I’m cuddling one, you can be mixing the next, and so on Do you get me?”
“The cocktails will tend to that,” said Ben.
A Martini was the ninth on the list that Mr. Arnold put down.
“That’s all I know how to make,” said Ben after a close observation of his guest. “If I was you, I’d get myself something to eat.”
“That wouldn’t be the right spirit,” said Mr. Arnold. “We got to lay off of food and preserve it. Give us another cocktail.”
“They ain’t no more,” said Ben.
“All right. Start in on the cordials.”
“Cordials! You don’t drink them till after you’ve eat.”
“Is that the rules?” inquired Mr. Arnold.
“That’s the rules. Go back in the café and throw a big steak into you.”
“But I don’t feel like a steak. I feel like some cheese.”
“I thought you would,” said Ben. …
“I want to go where they’s music and dancing.”
So said Mr. Arnold to the driver, and he climbed into the car without mishap save for a barked shin.
Before he had got fairly asleep, the taxi stopped in front of the Red Duck.
“This is about the livest place,” the driver said, and Mr. Arnold, relieved of one dollar and thirty cents, walked in.
“What will it be?” inquired the waiter.
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Arnold.
“Something to drink?”
“Why, certainly. What did you think I came in for—to get a suit pressed?”
“What kind of a drink?”
“What kind ain’t I had?”
“I don’t believe they’s any,” said the waiter.
“But listen here, George. You must know of some
