Finally, some one called, "Speech! Speech! A speech from Mr. Pod!" I tried to respond. I didn't believe the guests knew who I was, other than a pod of some sort. The hotel manager did, but he had gone. I therefore decided not to reveal my identity; I would act the invited guest I was taken to be.
I did not speak long. What I said was ostensibly so appropriate, so pointed, so witty, so apropos, that the frequent cries of "Hear! Hear!" told me I had made a hit, and it was time to stop. I have no recollection of what I said on that momentous occasion, but I apologized for the abruptness of my departure on the plea that I had six more banquets to attend that evening, whereas I had but one stomach.
Wild cheers and handclapping greeted my speech. When quiet was restored I offered the following toast, asking all to rise with filled goblets:
Hic—here's to the man, boys, here's to the man
Who—hic—has the sagacity, gall, and who can
Partake of the bless—hics—of earth, though unbidden,
Without revealing the jack—hic—he has ridden;
Here's to—hic—his pocket and here's to—hic—his purse—
May Balaam shed tears when—hic—he rides in a hearse.
With a concerted "Bravo!" all drank my health. Then, hat in hand, I followed a very tortuous route out and to the elevator, and soon afterward found the keyhole of my chamber door, and retired.
I did not feel well in the morning, but nevertheless journeyed to Oak Park at an early hour.
What a surprise awaited me at the barn! The air was dense with the odor of beer. I had hardly anticipated trouble brewing; nothing was so foreign to my thoughts as the possibility of finding two asinine inebriates and a "jagged" canine instead of the sober company I left the evening before.
But there they lay, both donkeys paralyzed, panting and blear-eyed. An overturned beer keg swam in the deluge of froth that flooded the floor. Mac must have pulled the bung out of the keg. The fellow looked guilty enough, but, when I recalled my own recent dissipation, I didn't have the heart to upbraid him.
I was perplexed. What could I do? To resume my pilgrimage that morning was out of the question. I felt in my bones that as soon as the saloonkeeper learned of the calamity, I, Pythagoras Pod, would have to pay damages. Such I could not well afford. Why not go to the man and enter a complaint against him for harboring knock-out drops, and consequently causing my valuable animals ruination of mind, physique and moral character?
A capital idea! No sooner thought than done. The man was speechless.