Cathy answered the phone. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song. Turning, she heaved at the bottom door and slammed it in his face just as he came leaping forward to grab her. What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. "We may trust him," he added in a whisper; "he is a staunch friend of the good cause.
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