When the tumbler was full, he set it down on the table, with
an indicative bang, close to Valentine's plate.
"Just try a toothful of that to begin with," said Mat. "If you like it,
say Yes; if you don't, say No; and I'll make it better next time."
"You are very kind, very kind indeed," answered Mr. Blyth, eyeing the
tumbler by his side with some little confusion and hesitation; "but
really, though I should be shocked to appear ungrateful, I'm afraid I
must own--Zack, you ought to have told your friend--"
"So I did," said Zack, sipping his rum-and-water with infinite relish.
"The fact is, my dear sir," continued Valentine, "I have the most
wretched head in the world for strong liquor of any kind--"
"Don't call it strong liquor," interposed Mat, emphatically tapping the
rim of his guest's tumbler with his fore-finger.
"Perhaps," pursued Mr. Blyth, with a polite smile, "I ought to have
said grog."
"Don't call it grog," retorted Mat, with two disputatious taps on the
rim of the glass.
"Dear me!" asked Valentine, amazedly, "what is it then?"
"It's Squaw's Mixture," answered Mat, with three distinct taps of
asseveration.
Mr. Blyth and Zack laughed, under the impression that their queer
companion was joking with them.
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