"Why, you're not going to smoke here?" I said.
"Cert," he crisply replied. "Why not?"
"You'll set the place afire, with all this loose hay about."
"Set yer gran'mother afire! Gimme a lucifer."
I told him I had none, and then he wanted me to get out and ask the brakey for one. I did not want to do it, but I felt sure that he would trouble me all night unless I did, so I consented to go. But, lo and behold! when I tried to lift the lid it would not lift.
"Fatty," I said, "we're ditched."
"Ditched yer gran'mother! What's the matter?"
"This lid won't move."
"Lemme get at it."
Fatty weighed two hundred and fifty pounds,—"punds," he called them,—and he put every one against that lid. It squeaked a little, but still would not lift.