But the others were noisily preparing to go on deck or return to their families. "You're nothing but a murderer," Mr. Wackstle informed him harshly. "'Hair o' the dog'? No, thanks! We'll get even with you after lunch to-morrow, and I've had enough hair o' the dog already."
Tinker did not stop shouting, and two stewards were already on their way bearing trays of wide-topped glasses brimmed with amber sparklings. "Everybody!" the uproarious victor commanded. He waved a steward toward the repellently staring Macklyn and Jones. "Those boys, too. Everybody, now! Just one hair o' the dog that bit you."
Mme. Momoro was mystified. "One hair of the dog," she repeated, turning wide-eyed to the playwright. "What can that mean—one hair of the dog that bits you?"
"This," he explained as one of the stewards presented a tray before them. "No! Certainly not!" he said to the man indignantly. "Take it away."
"No, no!" she cried quickly. "It would hurt his feelings, and he is so kind." She took one of the glasses from the tray, lifted it near her lips, and bowed smilingly to Tinker. "To the magician!"
