"But we drove on to look the field over. Less than half a mile down
the road we came to a low creek with rocky rugged banks. The banks
were splashed and splattered with bits of glass, and over the glass and
over the rocks ran thin trickling streams of a pale brown liquid that
had a perfectly sickening odor. I sniffed disgustedly as we walked
over to reconnoiter.

"'I guess he made good all right,' said Kirke in a disappointed voice,
inspecting the glass-splattered banks of the creek. Then he leaped
across and walked lightly up the bank on the opposite side. Stooping
down, he lifted an unbroken bottle and waved it at me, laughing.

"'They missed one. Never a crack in it and still cold.' He looked at
it curiously, affectionately, then with resignation. 'I am a
minister's son,' he reminded himself sternly. He lifted the bottle
above his head, and with his eye selected a nice rough rock half way
down the bank. 'Watch the bubbles,' he called to me.

"'Hay, mister,' interposed a voice, 'gimme half a dollar an' I'll show
you a whole pile of 'em that ain't broke.'

"Slowly we rallied from our stupefaction as we gazed at the slim,
brown, barefooted lad of the farm who was proudly brandishing a
forbidden cigarette of corn-silks.

"'A whole pile of 'em. On the square?' asked Kirke with glittering
eyes.

"'Yes, sir. A couple o' fellows come out in a light wagon a while ago
an' had a lot of bottles in boxes. First they throwed one on the