“Parker Street.”
With a vague half-light of comprehension dawning in his eye, the Major glanced an inquiry at the secretary. The secretary nodded, the Major poured vodka again.
“What number?”
“It hadn’t any.”
The boy sat up and gave the secretary a pathetic look which said, “Why do you want to torture me with these foolish things, when I am miserable enough without it?”
The secretary went on, unheeding: “What kind of a house was it?”
“Brick—two-story.”
“Flush with the sidewalk?”
“No, small yard in front.”
“Iron fence?”
“No, palings.”
The Major poured vodka again—without instructions—poured brimmers this time; and his face had cleared and was alive now.
“What do you see when you enter the door?”
“A narrow hall; door at the end of it, and a door at your right.”
“Anything else?”
“Hat-rack.”
“Room at the right?”
“Parlor.”
“Carpet?”
“Yes.”
“Kind of carpet?”
“Old-fashioned Wilton.”
“Figures?”
“Yes—hawking-party, horseback.”
The Major cast an eye at the clock—only six minutes left! He faced about with the jug, and as he poured he glanced at the secretary, then at the clock—inquiringly. The secretary nodded; the Major covered the clock from view with his body a moment, and set the hands back half an hour; then he refreshed the men—double rations.
“Room beyond the hall and hat-rack?”