“You must pardon us,” I said, “but in addition to our connection with the Anti-Dramatic and Saltatory Union, we are also officials—and in this particular work, I hold a higher position than my comrade—we are also officials of the Society for the Prevention of the Strong Drink Traffic. It is therefore not only important to us, since we have been invited to rescue you, to learn whether this also is one of your vices, but doubly necessary that we ourselves should take every possible precaution. You will consequently perceive, I hope, the imperative necessity of our assuring ourselves, before we partake of it, that the composition of the liquor you have proffered us is such as our consciences can approve of.” “Oh, I’m sure of it,” he said. “Just smell it.” “Personally,” I replied, “I do not object to the smell.” “And the taste,” he added, “is even pleasanter.” “I can quite believe it,” I said. “But what is it made of?” “Oh, just fruit,” said Miss Moonbeam. “It’s a sort of fruit squash, you know—a fruit squash, made of fruit.” Ezekiel advanced a little and put his face against it. “I prefer the colour,” he said, “to the smell.” “Yes, isn’t it beautiful?” said the naval officer, and several of the other actors said the same thing. “But what’s it called?” said Ezekiel. “Portugalade,” said Miss Moonbeam. “That’s because it comes from Portugal,” said the naval officer. “And one gets used to the smell,” said Ezekiel. “But why does one drink it out of wine glasses?” “Oh, but one needn’t,” said Miss Moonbeam. “One can drink it out of tumblers.” “One just used wine glasses,” said the naval officer, “because one happened to find them in the cupboard.” I looked at him piercingly. “But surely that seems to indicate,” I said, “that they have been used for other and less innocent beverages.” He hung his head, and as my glance swept his companions, I observed that most of them hung theirs also. Then he lifted it again, not without a certain honesty. “Mr. Carp,” he said, “it’s no use deceiving you. And I’m afraid I must confess that I haven’t confined myself to such health-giving drinks as this Portugalade.” “Nor we,” said his companions. “Nor we.” “But we hope to do better,” said Miss Moonbeam, “in the future.” “Then, ladies and gentlemen,” I said, sipping the Portugalade, which seemed to me exceptionally agreeable, “I can only implore you—and I speak not only for myself but for my friend Mr. Stool——” “Of the Adult Gripe Water,” said Ezekiel. “It was invented by my late father.” “You don’t say so?” said the naval officer. “Was that what made him late?” asked Miss Moonbeam. Ezekiel stared at her over the glass of Portugalade, which I had handed on to him before beginning my speech. “How do you mean late?” he said. “Wasn’t that what you said?” asked Miss Moonbeam. “Yes, but I meant dead,” said Ezekiel. “He’s been dead some time.” “You don’t mean it?” said the naval officer. “Yes. It’s rather nice,” said Ezekiel.