Kennicott got up to cool his wrath and indignation with a drink of water. He stumbled over a chair, reached for the jug, took a drink, set the jug down, stumbled over the same chair, and crawled back into bed. His expedition cost him the loss of all bed covering; he gave up the fight.
"Aside from dragging my own private views over the coals of your righteousness, did you and your friends find anything equally pleasant and self-satisfying to discuss this evening?"
"Eh—what's that? Why, yes, we did. We decided to refuse permission for one of these traveling medicine shows to operate in Plymouth."
"Medicine shows?"
"Yes—you know—like a fair in England. This one claims to come from down south somewhere. 'Smart Set Medicine Show' it's called, run by a fellow named Mencken. Sells cheap whisky to the Indians—makes them crazy, they say. He's another one of your radical friends we don't want around."
"Yes, he might cut in on your own trading with the Indians."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Prissie—hire a hall."
Silence. He began to snore.
She lay there, sleepless and open-eyed. The clock struck eleven.