t. Clothes like a fashion-plate--got
any fashion-plates in Chaudiere? 'who's your tailor?'" he added, in the
slang of the hour, with a loud laugh, then stopped suddenly and took
off his hat. "I forgot," he added, with upturned eyes and a dramatic
seriousness, "your tailor saved my life to-day-henceforth I am the
friend of all tailors. Well, to continue. My friend that was--I call him
my friend, though he ruined me and ruined others,--didn't mean to, but
he did just the same,--he came to a bad end. But he was a great man
while he lived. And what I'm coming to is this, the song he used to sing
when, in youthful exuberance, we went on the war-path like our young
friend over there"--he pointed to a young habitant farmer, who was
trying hard to preserve equilibrium--"Brown's Golden Pectoral will cure
that cough, my friend!" he added, as the young man, gloomily ashamed of
the laughter of the crowd, hiccoughed and turned away to the tree under
which Charley Steele stood. "Well," he went on, "I was going to say
that my friend's name was Charley, and the song he used to sing when the
roosters waked the morn was called 'Champagne Charlie.' He was called
'Champagne Charlie'--till he came to a bad end."

He twanged his guitar, cleared his throat, winked at Maximilian Cour the
baker, and began:

"The way I gained my title's by a hobby which I've got
Of never letting others pay, however long the shot;
Whoever drinks at my expense is treated all the same;
Whoever calls himself my friend, I make him drink champagne.
Some epicures like Burgundy, Hock, Claret, and Moselle,
But Moet's vintage only satisfies this champagne swell.
What matter if I go to bed and head is muddled thick,
A bottle in the morning sets me right then very quick.
Champagne Charlie is my name;
Champagne Charlie is my name.
Who's the man with the heart so young,
Who's the man with the ginger tongue?
Champagne Charlie is his name!"

Under the tree, Charley Steele listened to this jaunty epitaph on his
old self. At the first words of the coarse song there rushed on him
the dreaded thirst. He felt his veins beating with desire, with anger,
disgust, and shame; for there was John Brown, to the applause of the
crowd, imitating his old manner, his voice, his very look. He started
forward, but the drunken young habitant lurched sideways under the tree
and collapsed upon the ground, a bottle of whiskey falli