ipin' the mud out of
his eyes.

"You forget!" says the lady. And say, anyone that knew the old Commodore
wouldn't have to do any guessin' as to who her father was. "You forget,
do you? Well, I want you to remember. Out with it, now!"

"Yes, ma'am," says Babbitt, tryin' to prop up his wilted collar. "I'd
just give him his first dose for the day, and I'd dodged the glass, when
somethin' catches me from behind, throws me into the tea-wagon, and off
I goes. But that dose counts, don't it, ma'am? He got it down."

I sees how it was then; Babbitt had been gettin' a commission for every
glass of the medicated stuff he pumped into the Commodore.

"Will you please run after my father and tell him to come back," says
the lady to me.

"Sorry," says I, "but I'm no antelope. You'd better telegraph him."

I didn't stay to see any more, I was that sore on the whole crowd. But I
hoped the old one would have sense enough to clear out for good.

I didn't hear any more from my neighbors all day, but after supper that
night, just about dusk, somebody sneaks in through the back way and
wabbles up to the veranda where I was sittin'. It was the old Commodore.
He was about all in, too.

"Did--did I drown him?" says he.

"You made an elegant try," says I; "but there wasn't water enough."

"Thank goodness!" says he. "Now I can die calmly."

"What's the use dyin'?" says I. "Ain't there no thin' else left to do
but that?"

"I've got to," says he. "I can't live on that cursed stuff they've been
giving me, and if I eat anything else I'm done for. The specialist said
so."

"Oh, well," says I, "maybe he's made a wrong guess. It's your turn now.
Suppose you come in and let me have Mother Whaley broil you a nice juicy
hunk of steak?"

Say, he was near starved. I could tell that by the way he looked when I
mentioned broiled steak. He shook his head, though. "If I did, I'd die
before morning," says he.

"I'll bet you a dollar you wouldn't," says I.

That almost gets a grin out of him. "Shorty," says he, "I'm going to
risk it."

"It's better'n starving to death," says I.

And he sure did eat like a hungry man. When he'd put away a good square
meal, includin' a dish of sliced raw onions and two cups of hot tea, I
plants him in an arm chair and shoves out the cigar box. He looks at the
Fumadoras regretful.

"They've kept those locked away from me for two weeks," says he, "and
that was worse than going without food."

"Smoke up, the