that he was reading Solon's
comment upon himself, and I shuddered.

As I paused at the door of the hotel Potts emerged from the barber-shop.
In one hand he carried his bag, in the other his cane and the _Little
Arcady Argus_. His hat was a bit to one side, and it seemed to me
that he was leaning back farther than usual. He had started briskly down
the street in the opposite direction from me, but halted on meeting
Eustace Eubanks. The Colonel put down his bag and they shook hands.
Eustace seemed eager to pass on, but the Colonel detained him and began
reading from the _Argus_. His voice carried well on the morning air, and
various phrases, to which he gave the full meed of emphasis, floated to
me on the gentle breeze. "That peerless pleader and Prince of
Gentlemen," came crisply to my ears. Eustace appeared to be restive, but
the Colonel, through caution, or, perhaps, mere friendliness, had moored
him by a coat lapel.

The reading done, I saw that Eustace declined some urgent request of the
Colonel's, drawing away the moment his coat was released. As they
parted, my worst fears were confirmed, for I saw the Colonel progress
flourishingly to the corner and turn in under the sign, "Barney Skeyhan;
Choice Wines, Liquors, and Cigars."

"What did he say?" I asked of Eustace as he came up.

"It was exceedingly distasteful, Major." Eustace was not a little
perturbed by the encounter. "He read every word of that disgusting
article in the _Argus_ and then he begged me to go into that Skeyhan's
drinking-place with him and have a glass of liquor. I said very sharply,
'Colonel Potts, I have never known the taste of liquor in my whole life
nor used tobacco in any form.' At that he looked at me in the utmost
astonishment and said: 'Bless my soul! _Really?_ Young man, don't you
put it off another day--life is awful uncertain.' 'Why, Colonel,' I
said, '_that_ isn't any way to talk,' but he simply tore down the
street, saying that I was taking great chances."

"And now he is reading his piece to Barney Skeyhan!" I groaned.

"Rum is the scourge of our American civilization," remarked Eustace,
warmly.

"Barney Skeyhan's rum would scourge anybody's civilization," I said.

"Of course I meant _all_ civilization," suggested Eustace, in polite
help to my lame understanding.

Precisely at nine o'clock Potts issued from Skeyhan's, bearing his bag,
cane, and _Argus_ as before. He looked up and down the quiet street
interestedly, then