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Updated: May 6, 2025
"People either want to drink too much or they don't want to drink at all. Nobody wants to drink in moderation. Now, here's you, for instance. You look like a feller that could kiss a highball or two without compromising yourself, and there's Hatch that has to hold his nose so's he won't get drunk if he comes within ten feet of a glass of whiskey." They were strolling slowly toward the Tavern.
Once barely sipping at wines, cocktails, brandy-and-soda, she now took to the latter, or, rather, to a new whisky-and-soda combination known as "highball" with a kind of vehemence which had little to do with a taste for the thing itself. True, drinking is, after all, a state of mind, and not an appetite.
But, well, it was my first week at the University fortunately I had paid the expenses of the first semester in advance when one night a couple of fellows I knew brought me down to see the town. I didn't know much about a city then; I had grown up over in the sage-brush country, and I never had heard of a highball.
He lowered one eyelid and concentrated on the list of potables offered by the auto-bar. He'd decided earlier in the game that it would be a physical impossibility to get through the whole list but he was making a strong attempt on a representative of each subdivision. He'd had a cocktail, a highball, a sour, a flip, a punch and a julep. He wagged forth a finger to dial a fizz, a Sloe Gin Fizz.
He pointed to the green door. "By all means let's have him in." Peter crossed over, opened the door and welcomed in Private Key, very suspicious and uncertain and guilty. Chairs were found and the three took their seats around the punch bowl. Peter gave them each a highball and offered them a cigarette from his case. They accepted both with some diffidence.
Curtis wanted to scream aloud, but she dared not. Even Devar was staggered by his friend's unaccountable attitude. The only outwardly unmoved individual present was Horace P. Curtis. He turned and pressed an electric bell; Steingall glared at him, so he explained his action. "I feel like a highball," he said blandly. "I guess Mrs. Curtis could do with one also.
Just because I went to Gruber's with Neva Lorrie and a couple of gentlemen they were gentlemen all right, as much gentlemen as Ditmar you come at me and tell me I'm all to the bad." She began to sob. "I'm as straight as you are. How was I to know the highball was stiff?
You beat it out of here, while I finish scuppering the rest of the water." A quarter of an hour later, with the three money-sharks still at the mast- heads, Charles Stough Greenleaf was seated in the cabin and sipping a highball, and Dag Daughtry was standing across the table from him, drinking directly from a quart bottle of beer.
Playing with the fancy, she wandered on to a consideration of the outcome. Always she had avoided such consideration, but the tiny highball had given her daring. It came to her that she saw doom ahead, doom vague and formless but terrible. She was brought back to herself by Dick's hand before her eyes and apparently plucking from the empty air the something upon which she steadfastly stared.
"He said if I thought he was an invalid any longer I had another guess coming. Says he'll be up and into his clothes by to-morrow, and is going to take care of me. Says I'm pale and need a highball, whatever that is." "Never heard of it," said Sallie. "He's a good young man, if he did get pitched overboard," went on Mrs. Stoddard.
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