heart, a receptive soul. And I got gloriously filled up, too, let me
tell you. Connie, shun the little gay-backed cards that bear diamonds
and hearts and spades. Connie, flee from the ice-cold bottles that
bubble to meet your lips. Connie, turn a cold shoulder to the gilded
youths who sing when the night is old.'

"'For goodness' sake, Kirke, tell me the story before the sheriff gets
you.'

"'Well, it is a story of bottles on ice.'

"'Mount Mark is dry.'

"'Yes, like other towns, Mount Mark is dry for those who want it dry,
but it is wet enough to drown any misguided soul who loves the damp. I
loved it,--but, with the raven, nevermore. Connie, there is one thing
even more fatal to a minister's son than bottles of beer. That thing
is politics. If I had taken my beer straight I might have escaped.
But I tried to dilute it with politics, and behold the result. My
father walking the floor in anguish, my mother in tears, my future
blasted, my hopes shattered.'

"'Kirke, tell me the story.'

"'Matters is running for reelection. I do not approve of Matters. He
is a booze fighter and a card shark and a lot of other unscriptural
things. As a Methodist and a minister's son I felt called to battle
his return to office. So I went out electioneering for my friend and
ally, Joe Smithson. You know, Connie, that in spite of my wandering
ways, I have friends in the county and I am a born talker. I took my