The quarryman covered his eyes with his hands—he was ashamed to look up.
"If that wasn't bad enough, the words that followed were worse—and I a teetotaler down to the soles of my feet.
"'Here's the bottle, as it passes
Do not fail to fill your glasses;
Water drinkers are dull asses
When they're met together.
"'Milk is meet for infancy,
Ladies like to sip Bohea;
Not such stuff for you and me
When we're met together.'
"All the while I sang it I knew I was saying good-bye to my consistency, I was going against my dearest convictions. But I couldn't help myself, it was as though an evil spirit possessed me. I was myself and yet not myself. It was terrible—terrible—terrible!"
The quarryman swung his pasty bag and smote his breast with it.
"That warn't all," he continued, and lowered his tone. "There was an uncommon pretty barmaid with red rosy cheeks and curling
