“How about an absinthe frappée?”
“What is that like?” asked Mr. Arnold.
“Well, let’s see—” said George. “It’s a good deal like shrapnel, kind of mild and harmless.”
“I don’t want nothing mild, but I don’t want to miss nothing. So bring it on.”
And it happened that in George’s absence they began to dance, and a girl at the next table thought Mr. Arnold looked so funny that she had to laugh at him just as the music started. And Mr. Arnold took the laugh as an invitation and went over there.
“Good evening,” he said.
Promptly arose the girl’s escort, a tall well-dressed young man.
“I guess you’ve made a mistake,” he said.
Mr. Arnold was embarrassed and said:
“I beg your pardon. I beg your pardon.”
“All right. Beat it!” said the youth.
“Yes, but I don’t want no bad feeling. I ain’t a bad fella. My friends’ll tell you that.”
“I’ll bet you they don’t.”
“They would if they was here. But that makes no difference. We’d ought to all be friends tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the last night.”
“The last night! Are you one of those bugs?”
Mr. Arnold laughed uproariously.
“That’s pretty good!” he said at length. “ ‘One of those bugs.’ I’ll bet they don’t nobody get ahead of you. I’d liked to of met you before it was too late.”
“I hope we’re not detaining you.”
“Not a minute! I’m all alone and just looking for company. It’s pretty tough running round alone the last night.”
“Say, what are you talking about? Did somebody tip you off that Gabriel was going to play ‘The Holy City’ tomorrow?”
“I guess you know what I’m talking about,” said Mr. Arnold, winking. “I guess you read the papers.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“I guess you’re on the square,” said Mr. Arnold, “and if you really ain’t heard the dope, I’ll give it to you.”
“Go ahead.”
“And I may as well set down and buy a drink while I’m at it,” said Mr. Arnold.
“Walter,” said the young lady, “let’s finish this dance. Please!”
“No,” said Walter, “we’ll have the next.”
And he and Mr. Arnold sat down.
“Now,” said Walter, “what’s the big secret?”
“What are we going to drink?” said Mr. Arnold.
“What are you drinking?” inquired the younger man.
“Mine’s over to that other table. I’ll have the waiter fetch it. It’s something new—an absinthe frappée.”
“Yes, that is a new one. But anyway, it suits me.”
“Walter! Anything but that! You promised!” said the girl.
“Yes, yes, I know!”—impatiently. “But if this is the end of the world, promises don’t go.”
“And,” said Mr. Arnold, “won’t the young lady have one too?”
“Never mind her!” said the youth impatiently. “She’s Miss Gloom tonight. Let’s get to the secret.”
Mr. Arnold lighted a cigar with an unsteady hand.
“Well,” he said, “you know this here war—”
“I’d heard there was one,” said Walter.
“Well, this war’s what’s brought up this here other thing. It seems like the President wants to preserve food.”
“Strawberries and stuff like that?”
“No, no. He wants to keep a hold of all the food, so’s they won’t be no famines during the war. And the stuff they make liquor out of could be made into something to eat if they didn’t make it out of liquor.”
“Yes, yes. Go on.”
“So tomorrow morning it’s off.”
The girl looked up eagerly.
“Was that in tonight’s paper?” she said.
“Sure, it was in all of them,” said Mr. Arnold.
“Are you sure?”
“It’s a cinch—that is, the papers didn’t say it was going to be tomorrow, but it’s liable to be.”
The young man laughed.
“So you’re taking no chances,” he said.
“That’s me,” said Mr. Arnold. “When I heard about it, when I found out we was liable to wake up tomorrow morning and find everything closed, I says to myself I’d finish in a blaze of glory. And I swore I wouldn’t go home till I’d tasted every drink that’s made. I guess I’m pretty near to the end of the list now.”
“What have you had?”
“Well, I had nine different cocktails and seven cordials and I forget what all. And now I’m winding up with a few of the fancy ones.”
“Maybe I can think of some you’ve missed.”
“Walter!”
“Have you tackled a julep?”
“No.”
“Or a Swiss Ess?”
“No.”
“Or—”
“Wait a minute. Let’s make lis’. Write ’em all down black and white.”
“Go ahead.”
“You write ’em. My hand kind of shakes.”
“I don’t see why it should.”
“Never mind. Make lis’.”
“I could make one a mile long. But I don’t believe you’d appreciate them all tonight. I’ll give you a few to wind up the evening on. And if you run shy tomorrow, call me up and I’ll give you some more.”
Whereupon Walter handed Mr. Arnold his card.
“You’ve got a good system,” continued Walter. “Pretend every night’s the last one and enjoy it to the limit.”
“No sys’m ’bout it. This’s pos’ively las’.”
“I’d like to bet you.”
“All bets off. I know!”
The girl rose from her chair. “Walter,” she said, “I’m tired. I’m going home.”
“All right, if that’s the way you feel about it. I’ll call you a cab.”
“Tha’s right,” said Mr. Arnold. “Time for li’le girls to be in bed.”
Jay Arnold awoke at noon on the thirtieth in a room in the Grand Hotel. The telephone was ringing insistently. He got out of bed—a head-splitting operation—and went to answer it. A voice at the other end announced that its owner was Walter Crowell.
“What of it?” said Mr. Arnold testily. “I don’t know nobody of that name.”
“Yes, you do,” said the voice. “Anyway, I’m coming up.”
“Well, don’t stay long,” said Mr. Arnold.
A few moments later he admitted the young man of the Red Duck.
“You!” said Mr. Arnold. “And how did you know I was here?”
“I put you to bed,” said Walter.
“The dickens you say! Well, it’s the first time that ever had to be done.”
Walter produced a morning paper.
“Arnold,” he said, “if you’d made that bet, you’d have lost it.”
“What bet?”
“I wanted to bet you that the country wouldn’t be bone dry this morning. It isn’t. And it probably won’t be for some time to come.” He paused. “But as far as I’m concerned, it is. I want to apologize for leading you on
