“Only two bottles left,” cried Latrobe in consternation! “Well, what the devil are we going to do when they are gone?--what's anybody going to do?” The “we” was the key to the situation. The good Madeira of Kennedy Square was for those who honored it, and in that sense--and that sense only--was common property. “Don't be frightened, Latrobe,” laughed St. George--“I've got a lot of the Blackburn Reserve of 1812 left. Todd, serve that last bottle I brought up this morning--I put it in that low decanter next to--Ah, Malachi--you are nearest. Pass that to Mr. Latrobe, Malachi--Yes, that's the one. Now tell me how you like it. It is a little pricked, I think, and may be slightly bruised in the handling. I spent half an hour picking out the cork this morning--but there is no question of its value.” “Yes,” rejoined Latrobe, moistening his lips with the topaz-colored liquid--“it is a little bruised. I wouldn't have served it--better lay it aside for a month or two in the decanter. Are all your corks down to that, St. George?” “All the 1810 and '12--dry as powder some of them. I've got one over on the sideboard that I'm afraid to tackle”--here he turned to Clayton: “Major, you are the only man I know who can pick out a cork properly. Yes, Todd--the bottle at the end, next to that Burgundy--carefully now. Don't shake it, and--” “Well--but why don't YOU draw the cork yourself, St. George?” interrupted the major, his eyes on Todd, who was searching for the rarity among the others flanking the sideboard. “I dare not--that is, I'm afraid to try. You are the man for a cork like that--and Todd!--hand Major Clayton the corkscrew and one of those silver nutpicks.” The Honorable Prim bent closer. “What is it, St. George, some old Port?” he asked in a perfunctory way. Rare old wines never interested him. “They are an affectation,” he used to say. “No, Seymour--it's really a bottle of the Peter Remsen 1817 Madeira.” The bottle was passed, every eye watching it with the greatest interest. “No, never mind the corkscrew, Todd,--I'll pick it out,” remarked the major, examining the hazardous cork with the care of a watchmaker handling a broken-down chronometer. “You're right, St. George--it's too far gone. Don't watch me, Seymour, or I'll get nervous. You'll hoodoo it--you Scotchmen are the devil when it comes to anything fit to drink,” and he winked at Prim. “How much is there left of it, St. George?” asked Latrobe, watching the major manipulate the nutpick. “Not a drop outside that bottle.” “Let us pray--for the cork,” sighed Latrobe. “Easy--E-A-SY, major--think of your responsibility, man!” It was out now, the major dusting the opening with one end of his napkin--his face wreathed in smiles when his nostrils caught the first whiff of its aroma.