"C'est la reine Pomaré
Qui a pour tout tenue
Au milieu de l'été …"
the song being brought to an untimely end by reason of the parties on either side of the singer's table entering into a friendly tug-of-war with his feet as rope-ends. As he fell, amid howls of glee and the crashing of glass, the Bucking Bronco remarked to Rupert—
"Gwine ter be some rough-housin' ter-night ef we're lucky," but ere the mêlée could become general, Madame la Cantinière, descending from her throne behind the bar, bore down upon the rioters and rated them soundly—imbeciles, fools, children, vauriens, and sales cochons that they were. Madame was well aware of the fact that a conflagration should be dealt with in its earliest stages and before it became general.
"This is really extraordinarily good wine," remarked Rupert to John Bull.
"Yes," replied the latter. "It's every bit as good at three-halfpence a bottle as it is at three-and-six in England, and I'd advise you to stick to it and let absinthe alone. It does one no harm, in reason, and is a great comfort. It's our greatest blessing and our greatest curse. Absinthe is pure curse—and inevitably means 'cafard.'"
"What is this same 'cafard' of which one hears so much?" asked Rupert.
"Well, the word itself means 'beetle,' I believe, and sooner or later the man who drinks absinthe in this climate feels the beetle crawling round and round in his brain. He then does the maddest things and
