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Lonesome Land by B. M. Bower
page 8 of 254 (03%)
your girl to find out you're drunk? You got the license in your pocket.
You're supposed to get spliced this evening--and look at you!" He turned
and went out to the bartender.

"Why didn't you pour that coffee into him, like I told you?" he demanded.
"We've got to get him steady on his pins _somehow!_"

The bartender was sprawled half over the bar, apathetically reading the
sporting news of a torn Sunday edition of an Eastern paper. He looked up
from under his eyebrows and grunted.

"How you going to pour coffee down a man that lays flat on his belly and
won't open his mouth?" he inquired, in an injured tone. "Sleep's all he
needs, anyway. He'll be all right by morning."

The other snorted dissent. "He'll be all right by dark--or he'll feel a
whole lot worse," he promised grimly. "Dig up some ice. And a good jolt of
bromo, if you've got it--and a towel or two."

The bartender wearily pushed the paper to one side, reached languidly under
the bar, and laid hold of a round blue bottle. Yawning uninterestedly, he
poured a double portion of the white crystals into a glass, half filled
another under the faucet of the water cooler, and held them out.

"Dump that into him, then," he advised. "It'll help some, if you get it
down. What's the sweat to get him married off to-day? Won't the girl wait?"

"I never asked her. You pound up some ice and bring it in, will you?" The
volunteer nurse kicked open the door into the little room and went in,
hastily pouring the bromo seltzer from one glass to the other to keep it
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