uble-strapped himself to the Wagon and started up
Seltzer Avenue, he realized that an immediate Absinthe Frappe would be
worth $15,000 to him, but instead of ordering one, he resolved to
write Doc Wiley a Letter advising him that while he was putting the
Nixey Mark on that Green Magoo he should include all other Colors
bestowed upon the Essence of Tribulation.

That afternoon the Survivors of the Midnight Massacre got together at
a Club to compare Hang-Overs and find out what had happened after the
Roof fell in.

Our Hero appeared just as the Boy was getting ready to throw a Life
Line. He was greeted with a ribald Shout and told to come running and
Save Himself.

The Moment had arrived for him to be a Man. Surrounded by Ice and
Squirters and Mixing Spoons and Orange Peel and Jiggers and Jaggers,
he drew himself together and made the Announcement.

For a Moment they were stunned by the Impact and then every Son of
Peoria leaned back and let out a Yowl. To think that a real up-to-date
Fellow would pull any of that Old Stuff! A puny Mortal trying to get
a Toe-Hold on the Demon!

They told him to forget it and quit his Spoofing and remove his
Overshoes and ease a couple of Gills into his Reservoir and try to be
a Human Being, however painful the Effort.

He came back with a few Gems from the Family Medicine Book about the
Effect of the Accursed Stuff on various Organs. He did not propose to
feed himself anything that would cut the Varnish off of Wood-Work. The
Hard Stuff had passed out of his Life.

The Cackles died away and were succeeded by looks of Blank Dismay.
They saw that one whom they had long regarded as a reliable bench-
working Union Lush had turned in his Card and deliberately made himself
an Outcast.

They saw him order Vichy and go to it as if it were a Beverage, and
then they tore up his Credentials and burned his Photograph and told
him to go out to a 3-days Cure and take a Hypodermic of Hot Mush.

He sat back and pulled the Grim Smile which Savanarola wore when they
piled the Fagots around him. He was a Martyr and proud of his Job. By
the same Token there is no Brand of Rectitude that grades so pure and
spotless as that exhibited by the disinfected Dove who has not touched
a Drop for nearly 24 hours.

They saw him go home with a Magazine under his Arm, and then they sat
around until all Hours, lapping it up and progging his Finish. They
said he never would last a Week, and when the Fel