INSTINCT GONE WRONG



Old Mac used to sleep in his wagon in fine weather, when he had no
load, on his blankets spread out on the feed-bags; but one time he
struck Croydon, flush from a lucky and good back trip, and looked in
at the (say) Royal Hotel to wet his luck--as some men do with their
sorrow--and he "got there all right." Next morning he had breakfast
in the dining-room, was waited on as a star boarder, and became
thoroughly demoralized; and his mind was made up (independent of
himself, as it were) to be a gentleman for once in his life. He went
over to the store and bought the sloppiest suit of reach-me-downs of
glossiest black, and the stiffest and stickiest white shirt they had
to show--also four bone studs, two for the collar and two for the
cuffs. Then he gave his worn "larstins" to the stable-boy (with
half a crown) to clean, and--proceeded. He put the boots on during
the day, one at a time between drinks, gassing all the time, and
continued. He concluded about midnight, after a very noisy time and
interviews with everyone on sight (slightly interrupted by drinks)
concerning "his room." It was show time, you see, and all the rooms
were as full as he was--he was too full even to share the parlour or
billiard room with others; but he consented at last to a shake-down on
the balcony, the barmaid volunteering to spread the couch with her own
fair hands.

Towards daylight he woke, for one of the reasons why men do wake. It