“Of the Agurcia, when suddenly a machine-gun started banging down the street, and the bar-room door went shut behind me, catapulting me into the middle of the road. I picked myself up, and made a rush for the W.C.T.U. across the way—
“For the what?”
“For the establishment across the way, and they slammed the doors in my face. I made a bee-line for the Epworth League meeting around the corner, and the barkeeper there—”
He paused to pour another round and forgot to resume. He walked out to the balcony with the empty bottle and returned with the sorrowful comment, “Nobody to throw it at. What do you want to hear about next?”
“Tell him about the badger fight,” suggested Pop.
Pop had stripped off his clothing, and now sat naked on the bed, a rather slender old gentleman, whose white hair still gave him something of dignity. Young Sparks was crawling under the bureau after the corkscrew. Doc, big and rotund, with cheerful ruddy face, again took the floor.
“The badger fight. We got the Salvadorean minister to be the badger’s second. He came direct from some diplomatic function, wearing his top hat, and his long coat, and his striped pants, and his spats, and patent leather shoes. We took him up to the hill, where we had the badger-cage all padded with straw. The dog that was to fight the badger was a big, ugly bloodhound. All the minister had to do was take hold of the rope, and pull the badger out of the cage, we explained, only we thought it best to put a stove-pipe over each of his legs, and cover his chest with a baseball protector, and put a mask over his face, and long gauntlets on his arms. You should have seen him in that get-up, with a silk hat on top of it all. We gave him the end of the rope, and said ‘Go!’ He was so scared, he forgot to let go of the rope, and when we all started yelling down hill, he beat the whole gang, still dragging behind him the old slop bucket that was in the badger-cage. But he was game. He took us all back to town and bought the—”
Association of ideas brought Doc’s eye to another bottle, and he emptied it into the glasses, shampooing Pop’s white hair with the dregs of it.
“At-a-boy, shampoo it!” chuckled Pop.
And Doc shampooed industriously. “Gimme the scissors,” he commanded. “Don’t cut it off!” protested Sparks. But Pop was game. “Cut it all off!” he cried recklessly. The party was getting rough. Sparks seized an armful of bottles and commenced hurling them from the balcony. They crashed noisily upon the silent street. Pop seized a paper bag, blew it up, and smote it with a loud, “Bang!”