In a few moments the saloon-keeper said:
“Comston, I’ll give you another drink if you’ll drag that drunken feller out there under the trees. He fell down, and cut himself on the corner of that bench, and is bleeding considerably.”
“I’ll do it,” exclaimed Comston, upon whom the brandy was beginning to have some effect. He stooped down to lift up the fallen man, but glancing at the ghastly face, he exclaimed:
“Why, Good Gracious! he’s dead, arn’t he?”
“O, no—dead drunk—that’s all.”
“Well, may be he is,” said Comston, who was more anxious about the anticipated dram than the fate of a fellow-being. “I’ll take him out anyhow.”
Seizing the dead man in his arms, he dragged him out of the door, and while so doing, his own clothing was plentifully besmeared with blood. As he reached the trees, two men passed by, one of whom said:
“Hello, Comston! what are you doin’? Been fightin’, have you?”
“Not much,” replied Comston, who wanted it thought that he was a man of pugnacious tendencies. “He gave me some of his impudence, and I slapped him over.”
This brief specimen of Comston’s braggadocio appeared to delight the saloon keeper.