wives and sisters and mothers to the way they should vote?"

"The 'Memoirs of an Alcoholic,'" I sneered--or, rather, John
Barleycorn sneered; for he sat with me there at table in my
pleasant, philanthropic jingle, and it is a trick of John
Barleycorn to turn the smile to a sneer without an instant's
warning.

"No," said Charmian, ignoring John Barleycorn's roughness, as so
many women have learned to do. "You have shown yourself no
alcoholic, no dipsomaniac, but merely an habitual drinker, one who
has made John Barleycorn's acquaintance through long years of
rubbing shoulders with him. Write it up and call it 'Alcoholic
Memoirs.'"



CHAPTER II


And, ere I begin, I must ask the reader to walk with me in all
sympathy; and, since sympathy is merely understanding, begin by
understanding me and whom and what I write about. In the first
place, I am a seasoned drinker. I have no constitutional
predisposition for alcohol. I am not stupid. I am not a swine.
I know the drinking game from A to Z, and I have used my judgment
in drinking. I never have to be put to bed. Nor do I stagger.
In short, I am a normal, average man; and I drink in the normal,
average way, as drinking goes. And this is the very point: I am
writing of the effects of alcohol on the normal, average man. I