of the crowd, hiccoughed and turned away to the tree under which Charley
Steele stood. "Well," he went on, "I was going to say that my friend's
name was Charley, and the song he used to sing when the roosters waked
the morn was called 'Champagne Charlie.' He was called 'Champagne
Charlie'--till he came to a bad end."

He twanged his guitar, cleared his throat, winked at Maximilian Cour the
baker, and began:

"The way I gained my title's by a hobby which I've got
Of never letting others pay, however long the shot;
Whoever drinks at my expense is treated all the same;
Whoever calls himself my friend, I make him drink champagne.
Some epicures like Burgundy, Hock, Claret, and Moselle,
But Moet's vintage only satisfies this champagne swell.
What matter if I go to bed and head is muddled thick,
A bottle in the morning sets me right then very quick.
Champagne Charlie is my name;
Champagne Charlie is my name.
Who's the man with the heart so young,
Who's the man with the ginger tongue?
Champagne Charlie is his name!"

Under the tree, Charley Steele listened to this jaunty epitaph on his old
self. At the first words of the coarse song there rushed on him the
dreaded thirst. He felt his veins beating with desire, with anger,
disgust, and shame; for there was John Brown, to the applause of the
crowd, imitating his old manner, his voice, his very look. He started
forward, but the drunken young habitant lurched sideways under the tree
and collapsed upon the ground, a bottle of whiskey falling out of his