“I am not sure that I catch your meaning,” said Popova, who felt himself somewhat smothered by rhetoric.

“Into the bar—­down at the little iron table—­business of hoisting beverage.”

“We of the faith are not supposed to partake of any drink containing even a small percentage of alcohol.”

“I’m not supposed to dally with it myself, having been brought up on cistern water, but I find in traveling that I entertain a more kindly feeling for you strange foreign people when I carry a medium-sized headlight.  Come along, now.  Don’t compel me to tear your clothes.”

There was no resisting the masterful spirit of the young steel magnate, and Popova was led away to a remote apartment, where a single shelf, sparsely set with bottles, made a weak effort to reproduce the fabled splendors of far-away New York.

“Let’s see, what shall we tackle?” asked Mr. Pike, as he checked down the line with a rigid forefinger.  “If you don’t care what happens to you, we might try a couple of cocktails—­that is, if you like the taste of eau de quinine.  Oh, I’ll tell you what!  Here are lemons, seltzer and gin.  Boy, two gin fizzes.”

The attendant, who was very juvenile and much afraid of his job, smiled and shook his head.

“Do you mean to say that you never heard of a gin fizz?” asked Mr. Pike.  “All the ingredients within reach, simply waiting to be introduced to each other, and you have been holding them apart.  You ought to be ashamed of yourself.  Bring out some ice.  Produce your jigger.  Get busy.  Hand me the tools and I’ll do this myself.”

Then, while the other two looked on in abashed admiration, Mr. Pike deftly squeezed the lemons and splashed in allopathic portions of the crystal fluid and used ice most wastefully.  After vigorous shaking and patient straining he shot a seething stream of seltzer into each glass and finally delivered to Popova a translucent drink that was very tall and capped with foam.

“Hide that, Professor,” he said.  “In a few minutes you will speak several new languages.”

Popova sipped conservatively.

“Don’t be afraid,” urged Mr. Pike, encouragingly.  “If the boy watched me carefully, possibly he can duplicate the order.”

The youth was more than willing, for he seldom received instruction.  With now and then a word of counsel or warning from the wise man of the west in the corner, he cautiously assembled two other fizzes, while Mr. Pike, in a most nonchalant and roundabout manner, sought information concerning affairs of state, local politics, the Governor-General’s household and Princess Kalora.  Popova told more than he had meant to tell and more than he knew that he was telling.