I sat down and began to cry because I had lost the script.  It had all gone out of my head again as quickly as it had come, so that I could not even repeat one they’d asked for.

“Hell, he’s got a crying drunk the first thing!”

“Cheer up, old scout ... here’s another cupful.”

“No ...  I don’t want any more ...  I’m never going to drink again.”

And I knocked the cup out of Travers’ hand with a violent drunken sweep of negation.

“No use getting huffy about it,” someone put in belligerently.

“If anybody wants to fight,” it was Black Jim, huge and menacing and morose, advancing....

Fight! knives! jails!...

Ah, yes, I was still in jail ... and Bud and the burly cotton thief were at it....

I staggered to my feet.

“Wait a minute, Bud ...  I’m coming.”  I gave a run toward a barrel, sent it a violent kick, a succession of kicks....

“Wait a minute!  I’m coming!”

“So am I!” grinned Black Jim belligerently, thinking I meant him and advancing slowly and surely.

The barrel burst asunder, the beer sumped and gurgled about my ankles as I stooped and picked up a stave.

“The damn fool’s ruined a whole keg.”

I was going to lick everybody in the jail, if I must.

“Put that stave down Gregory! put it down, for Christ’s sake!”

“Good God!  Grab Jim, someone!”

“Don’t be a fool ... hold Gregory ... he’s got the stave!”

“He’ll kill Jim!”

“Or Jim’ll kill him!"...

Then came a shout from nearby.

“I’ll heve the law on ye, I will! destroyin’ a man’s cornfield like a lot o’ heathens!”

Yelling and menacing, the farmer and his big, raw-boned son were upon us.  They evidently thought that we were all in such a drunken condition that they could kick us about as they choose.  They had just driven home from market-day in Laurel.

Everything was mixed up in my head ... but one thing out-stood:  I must do my duty by my barrel stave ... as the farmer leaped into the circle he did not notice me staggering on the outskirts.  I rushed up and let him have the barrel stave full across the head.

At the same time Black Jim had turned his attention to the rangy boy, felling him at a blow.  The boy leaped to his feet and ran away to a safe distance.

“Paw!” he called out, ‘I’ll run back to th’ house an’ ‘phone th’ p’lice.”

“Come on, boys, we’d better dig out!”

* * * * *

We straggled along in silent, rolling clusters, like bees smoked out, down the road ... we heard the rumble of a waggon ... when we recognised that it was our teetotaler coming back for us....

“God, if my old man hears of this I’m done for at Laurel.”

“So’m I!”

“If we only lay low and don’t go spouting off about it, things will be all O.K.”