"Please believe me," I pleaded.
"All right ... you are my son ... only don't kill me," he responded
craftily.
"Father!... good God!"
He perceived by the emotion of my last exclamation, that at least I was
not ill-disposed toward him.
He clutched at the advantage.
"Promise to take care of me till Johnnie comes--he's just around the
corner," slyly.
"Pop, what is it you want? What can I do for you?"
"A curious greed flickered in his eyes.
"Get me a drink!"
"All right! I'll get it for you!"
"Let me think! There's none in the house ... none left, Emily said."
"But I brought some with me ... wait a minute." I went into the kitchen,
turned on the tap softly, filled a glass half full of water, brought it
back to him.
"Here it is."
"I don't like the colour of it."
"Why, it has a nice, rich colour."
"What is it?--Scotch?"
"Yes."
He sipped of it. Made a rueful face. "I don't like the taste of it ...
it tastes too much like water," he commented, with a quiet, grave,
matter-of-fact grimace that set me laughing, in spite of myself....
"Drink it down! I swear it's all right."
He tossed off the water.
"Give me my pants. I want to get out of here."
"Why, wasn't that whiskey that I just gave you?"
"Yes, yes ... but not very good stuff. I know where I can get better."
Humouring him, I helped him into his trousers .
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