"Into the bar--down at the little iron table--business of hoisting
beverage."
"We of the faith are not supposed to partake of any drink containing
even a small percentage of alcohol."
"I'm not _supposed_ to dally with it myself, having been brought up on
cistern water, but I find in traveling that I entertain a more kindly
feeling for you strange foreign people when I carry a medium-sized
headlight. Come along, now. Don't compel me to tear your clothes."
There was no resisting the masterful spirit of the young steel magnate,
and Popova was led away to a remote apartment, where a single shelf,
sparsely set with bottles, made a weak effort to reproduce the fabled
splendors of far-away New York.
"Let's see, what shall we tackle?" asked Mr. Pike, as he checked down
the line with a rigid forefinger. "If you don't care what happens to
you, we might try a couple of cocktails--that is, if you like the taste
of _eau de quinine_. Oh, I'll tell you what! Here are lemons, seltzer
and gin. Boy, two gin fizzes."
The attendant, who was very juvenile and much afraid of his job, smiled
and shook his head.
"Do you mean to say that you never heard of a gin fizz?" asked Mr. Pike.
"All the ingredients within reach, simply waiting to be introduced to
each other, and you have been holding them apart.
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