A Story of Newfoundland Screech Rum
The corporal standing next to the jeep saluted. “An early night, Colonel?”
I wave my hand. “Damn proprietor was watering down the whiskey and now he has the audacity to close.”
“Tis Sunday morning,” replied Pierre Benoit, a Newfoundlander who Uncle Sam had contracted to build the airfield at Stephenville. “He can’t serve drinks on a Sunday.”
“Is that true, corporal?”
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