Читать книгу Frank Merriwell's Own Company; Or, Barnstorming in the Middle West онлайн

38 страница из 40

"Rhine wine," he said himself, pretending he had heard some person call for it. "Here it is, sir. Who asked for it? You?"

He placed it in an outstretched hand.

"Champagne," laughed a rather lively-looking lad.

Again the handkerchief was flirted, and then out from beneath its folds came the brimming glass of champagne, the glass being so full that a little of it was spilled as Frank passed it to the one who had called.

"Of course I am not able to treat everyone present," said Merry, apologetically. "I trust no one will be offended."

He gathered up the emptied glasses and started for the stage. Then, of a sudden, he turned about, looking around.

"What's that?" he said, pretending to overhear a remark. "Not satisfied? Think I am partial. Well, I don't like to seem partial to anyone. If you will wait, I think I can supply all present who wish something."

Then he passed the handkerchief to the one from whom he had borrowed it, thanking him for its use, and hastened upon the stage.

"I will bring out a bottle of wine, ladies and gentlemen," he said.