t a drinking man myself. I limit my imbibing to an occasional
glass of beer on account of the yeast it contains, which I consider
beneficial. I hope, however, I am no prig or puritan and so I asked
casually if he would care to stop in for an appetizer.

"Well, now you mention it, Mr Weener ... hum ... fact is ... don't mind
if I do."

While I confined myself to my medicinal beverage the general conducted a
most remarkable raid on the bar. As I have hinted, he was in demeanor a
mild appearing, if not indeed a timid man. In the course of an hour's
conversation no word of profanity, such as is affected by many military
men, had crossed his lips. The framed photograph of his wife and
daughters on his desk and his respectful references to women indicated
he was not the type of soldier who lusts for rapine. But seated before
that dull mahogany bar, whatever inhibitions, whatever conventional
shackles, whatever selfdenials and repressions had been inculcated fell
from him swiftly and completely. He barked his orders at the bartender,
who seemed to know him very well, as though he were addressing a parade
formation of badly disciplined troops.

Not only did General Thario drink enormously, but he broke all the rules
I had ever heard laid down about drinking. He began with a small, squat
glass, which I believe is called an Oldfashioned glass, containing half
cognac and half ryewhisky. He followed this with a tall tumbler--"twelve
full ounces ... none of your eightounce thimbles ... not trifled
with"--of champagne into which the bartender, upon his instructions and
under his critical eye, poured two jiggers of tropical rum. Then he
wiped his lips with a handkerchief pulled from his sleeve and began with
a serious air on a combination of benedictine and tequila. The more he
imbibed, the longer, more complete and more coherent his sentences
became. He dropped his harassed air; his abdomen receded, his chest
expanded, bringing to my notice for the first time the rows of ribbons
which confirmed his earlier assertion that he was not a desk soldier.

He was sipping curacao liberally laced with applejack when he suggested
we have our dinner sent in rather than leave this comfortable spot. "The
fact of the matter is, Mr Weener--I'm going to call you Albert if you
don't mind--"

I said I didnt mind with all the heartiness at my command.

"The fact of the matter is, Albert, I have devoted my unfortunate life
to two arts: the military