“‘Don’t be a fool,’ cried some of the men. ‘You’d find yourself in pieces at the bottom of it, if you tried fooling around that place.’
“But the drink was in, and the wit was out.
“‘I’ll bet you ten dollars you can’t,’ said one of the foremen, himself half muddled with drink.
“‘Done!’ he cried, and before we could stop him he darted off. We sat spell-bound gazing after him. He took the leap splendidly and landed quite two feet clear on the other side. A loud shout of praise went up from his mates, but ere it had left their lips it gave place to a cry of horror, for, as he landed, his leg seemed to give way beneath him, and he fell backwards, head first, down that awful chasm of death, a victim to that terrible drink which is always a curse to all who touch it.
“I shall never forget it, never as long as I live, he added, for he was as splendid a specimen of man as I have ever seen.”
“Aye, lads!” said big Tom Dixon, after we had puffed away in silence for a few seconds, “I have been a good many years at this work in various parts of the world, and I’ve seen hundreds of splendid fellows come to sad and terrible deaths through the self same drink that you and I are such fools to indulge in. The sky pilots (parsons) would have an easy job if the devil lost his bosom friend, alcohol. I have seen such things happen through it as would make your hair stand on end if you had been there with me.”
“Did your hair stand up, Tom?” asked one of the men jocularly.
For reply Tom raised his cap. He had been scalped.
“Yes,” he said, “it was lifted.”
“Tell us the story, Tom,” we all cried together, “fire away.”