"The doctors," continued the old man, "say that whiskey ruins the coat of the stomach. What would you do if that happened in your case?"
"I'd mighty soon make the darn thing work in its shirt-sleeves," says Percy.
We walked on and saw a farmhouse through the trees.
Percy went up to ask for some cold victuals and actually got the cold shoulder.
Then we struck the town of Freysburg. There's where poor Percy got fried to a rich, golden brown.
It happened this way.
We saw a large tent in which a revival meeting was going on.
"I'm going to take part," says Percy.
I tried to dissuade him, but it wouldn't go.