"What!" says he, "drinking beer again, friend Jones? I thought I told you that every glass of beer you took put a nail in your coffin."
"Can't give it up, doctor," says I. "Then, too, what does it matter after you're dead and gone if your coffin is as full of nails as the new East River Bridge is full of rivets."
I began to get a little confused, and couldn't see very clearly.
I met a friend and says:
"Say, Tom, can you tell me what has become of Walter Jones?"
"Why," says he, "you're Walter Jones yourself, ain't you?"
"I know it," says I, "but I want to know where he's got to."
He took me home.
The next morning my wife thought I was down-hearted. So I was. She tried to cheer me up.