brews, which settled at once and beyond question the
precise function of the evening, and all before you
could hand your hat to Malachi. If, for instance, as
the front door was opened the aroma was one of hot
coffee and the dry smell of fresh wafer-biscuit mingled
with those of a certain brand of sherry, then it
was always to be plain whist in the parlor, with perhaps
only Colonel Clayton and Miss Clendenning or
some one of the old ladies of the neighborhood, to hold
hands in a rubber. If the fumes of apple-toddy mingled
with the fragrance of toasted apples were wafted
your way, you might be sure that Max Unger, and
perhaps Bobbinette, second violin, and Nathan--whatever
the function it was always Nathan, it must be
remembered--and a few kindred spirits who loved
good music were expected; and at the appointed hour
Malachi, his hands encased in white cotton gloves,
would enter with a flourish, and would graciously beg
leave to pass, the huge bowl held high above his
head filled to the brim with smoking apple-toddy, the
little pippins browned to a turn floating on its top.

If the occasion was one of great distinction, one that
fell on Christmas or on New Year's, or which celebrated
some important family gathering, the pungent
odor of eggnog would have greeted you even before
you could have slipped off your gum-shoes in the hall,
or hung your coat on the mahogany rack. This seductive
concoction--the most potent of all Malachi's
beverages--was always served from a green and gold