him. "I thought mebbe you'd relish a drink out o' it."
Garth did. Even if the currant wine had not been so exceedingly good, it would have seemed to be so, drunk from that remarkable glass.
"Look at this!" said the hostess, holding out a hook-handled gourd, with strange patterns burned upon it. "My father told me the heathen drank tea out o' it,—put a straw or a pipe in at this hole, an' sucked it up. I couldn't enj'y it thet way; I'd ruther have a good dish o' tea right from the pot into the cup. Real bad-tastin' stuff, my father said 't was, too. An' this drum I useter be able to beat on, but 't is gettin' so old now I'm a mite afeared to. 'T is a tom-tom the savages had. My father said they'd jest as soon put you in a pot an' cook you as not, dancin' around beatin' on them drums; but none o' the savages I ever see on my vy'age was anythin' but real pleasant an' friendly. An' 't was somethin' wonderful, my father said, the way some he seen had patterns painted all over their bare skin!"
"Oh, dear!" Garth cried, putting down the glass. "There comes Fogger up the path! I want to stay lots longer; I'm having such a nice time."
