“Yes,” says I, shiverin.
He brought me a chair and told me to set down. Then he felt my hands and ears and says:
“Why, you are nearly froze.”
I told him about havin to stay out all nite, and about not havin anything warm for breakfast, the best I could, I shook so.
He went and got a big woolen cloth, held it to the stove till it got hot, and wrapped my ears up. Then he went and got a little glass full of liquor, and told me to drink it and it would warm me up. I told him I hadent any money, and had never drank a drop of liquor in my life.
“Well,” says he, “I know you have no money, and, if you had, a old man like you, in your condition, shouldent pay for it. If you dont wish to drink it I wont insist, but I thought it would warm you up.”
So he set the glass down on the counter and says:
“Ile make you a hot cup of coffee, and then I think you will feel better.”
When the saloonkeeper set the glass of whiskey down and went to gittin me some hot breakfast, I seemed to git colder inside as I got warmer outside. So, Betsy, I jist made up my mind that Ide drink that glass of whiskey if it killed me. And I did. Soon after I drank it I felt a warm feelin inside; and as I sot there it jist seemed as though I could feel myself a thawin out, with that big fire outside and that glass of whiskey inside. I sot there till the feller had my coffee and breakfast ready. It was the best coffee I ever tasted,—though, Betsy, I always loved the coffee you made,—and the fried eggs and the ham and the hot cakes jist seemed to melt in my mouth.
Well, arter I had my breakfast the saloonkeeper came around and sot down and asked me all about myself, and you too.