"Guess I'd say it's hereditary in flies," said Abe, feeling scientific.
"Wot's hered—hereditry?" demanded the butcher.
"Why—drink," explained Abe.
"Seems it's here—her—hereditry in most folk," smiled Lionel K., chewing the stump of his cigar vigorously to conceal his difficulty with such scientific terms.
The butcher nodded.
"I'd say some thirsts couldn't be brought on any other way," he said. "Well, not to say—easy."
Abe grinned.
"Guess you ain't a believer in that guy Darwin's highbrow theory?"
"Don't know what it is," replied the butcher, lifting the glass, and tilting it so as to put the ruddy liquid within reach of the volubly buzzing insects. "Anyway, I don't believe in it. Say—I'll swar' them two sossled microbes is holding a concert to 'emselves. See, one of 'em's doing the buzzin', and blamed if the other feller ain't just wavin' a leg to beat the band, keepin' time. Say, ain't they havin' a hell of a time?"
Lionel K. Sharpe struck a match, tried to light his cigar stump, burned his mustache, and abandoned the attempt.