So they placed me right where my eyes might rest on a large wall
cabinet full of very shiny-looking tools; and they took my cigar
away from me and folded my hands on the wide bowknot of my sash.
Then they put a cloth dingus over my face and a voice of authority
told me to breathe. That advice, however, was superfluous and
might just as well have been omitted, for such was my purpose
anyhow. Ever since I can recall anything at all, breathing has
been a regular habit with me. So I breathed. And, at that, a
bottle of highly charged sarsaparilla exploded somewhere in the
immediate vicinity and most of its contents went up my nose.

I started to tell them that somebody had been fooling with their
ether and adulterating it, and that if they thought they could
send me off to sleep with soda pop they were making the mistake
of their lives, because it just naturally could not be done; but
for some reason or other I decided to put off speaking about the
matter for a few minutes. I breathed again--again--agai----

I was going away from there. I was in a large gas balloon, soaring
up into the clouds. How pleasant! ... No, by Jove! I was not in
a balloon--I myself was the balloon, which was not quite so pleasant.
Besides, Doctor Z was going along as a passenger; and as we traveled
up and up he kept jabbing me in the midriff with the ferrule of a
large umbrella which he had brought along with him in case of rain.
He jabbed me harder and harder. I remonstrated with him. I told
him I was a bit tender in that locality and the ferrule of his
umbrella was sharp. He would not listen. He kept on jabbing me.

Something broke! We started back down to earth. We fell faster