Thomas Kinkade Lombard Street painting

Thomas Kinkade Lombard Street paintingThomas Kinkade Light of Freedom paintingThomas Kinkade Key West painting
The barman poured himself out something from a bottle which he kept for the purpose on a shelf below the bar, and said, “First today,” as we toasted one another. Atwater said, “It’s one of the mysteries of the club what Jim keeps in that bottle of his.” I knew; it was what every barman kept, cold tea, but I thought it would spoil Atwater’s treat if I told him.
Jim’s “special” was strong and agreeable.
“Is it all right for me to order a round?” I asked.
“It’s more than all right. It’s perfect.”
Jim shook up another cocktail and refilled his own glass.
“D’you remember the time I drank twelve of your specials before dinner with Mr. Appleby?”
“I do, sir.”
“A tiny bit spifflicated that night, eh, Jim?”
“A tiny bit, sir.”
We had further rounds; Jim took cash for the drinks; three shillings a time. After the first round, when Atwater broke into his pound note, I paid. Every other time he said, “Chalk it up to the national debt,” or some similar reference to the fiction of