"Look at him, gentlemen. Speak to him for me--for I cannot. I ask you to
note the condition he's in." Here, again, the Colonel burst into tears.
"And, oh, my God!" he sobbed, "could they ask me to trust myself to a
drunken rowdy of a driver, even if I _was_ going?" Amos was not only
sober, he was a shrewd observer of events, a seasoned judge of men. He
turned away without further parley. Big Joe told him he ought to be in
better business than trying to break up a pleasant party.

As the 'bus started, the strains of "Auld Lang Syne" floated to us
again, and we knew the day was lost.

"A hand of iron in a cunning little velvet glove," said Westley Keyts,
in deep disgust as he left us. "It looks to me a darned sight more like
a hand of mush in a glove of the _same!_"

I have often been brought to realize that the latent nobility in our
human nature is never so effectually aroused as at the second stage of
alcoholic dementia. The victim sustains a shock of illumination hardly
less than divine. On a sudden he is vividly cognizant of his
overwhelming spiritual worth. Dazed in the first moment of this flooding
consciousness, he is presently to be heard recalling instances of his
noble conduct under difficulty, of righteous fortitude under strain.
Especially does he find himself endowed with the antique virtues--with
courage and a rugged fidelity, a stainless purity of motive, a fond and
measureless generosity.

To this stage the libations of Potts had now brought him. He began to
refresh the crowd with comments upon his own worth, interspersed with
kindly but hurt appreciations of the great world's lack of discernment.