At the age of sixteen I started to school at Fairview, then as now, an insignificant but pretty village, some four miles from where my father lived.  William M. Thrasher, at this time Professor of Mathematics in the Butler University, at Irvington, near Indianapolis, was the teacher in charge of that school, and it is to him that I am under obligations for about all the “book learning” that I possess.  True, I went to college after that, but I merely skimmed over the studies there assigned me.  While at school at Fairview I improved every opportunity to drink.  A fatal instinct guided me to the rum shop.  It was during the first winter of my attendance at the Fairview school that I was guilty of my first debauch.  A young man from Connersville came over to attend school, and I would remark in passing that his father was chiefly interested in sending him to Fairview because he thought that his boy would here be out of temptation.  He arrived at noon one day, and we were immediately made acquainted with each other, an acquaintance which ripened into friendship on the spot.  The roads were in good condition for sleighing, and the next morning I proposed a ride.  He gladly accepted my invitation, and together we drove to Falmouth.  At Falmouth we each took a drink, and this fired us with a desire for more.  We drove to a house not far away where liquor was kept by the barrel, and tried to get some, but failed—­for we waited and waited to be invited in vain—­for no invitation was extended to us.  Disappointed and half crazy for whisky, we left the house and started on further in pursuit of the curse.  After driving about eight miles we halted at a place called Smelser’s Mills, where we were supplied with a bottle of Hostetter’s Bitters, which we drank without delay, and which was strong enough to make us reasonably drunk, but which, nevertheless, did not come up to our ideas of what liquor should be.  My experience has been that about the worst and cheapest whisky ever sold is that sold under the name of “bitters,” and it costs more than the best in the market.  Excuse the word “best,” but certain parts of Dante’s hell are good by comparison.  I say to all and every one, shun every drink that intoxicates, and shun nothing quicker than the patent medicines which contain liquor, and while you are about it, shun patent medicines which do not contain liquor.  The chances are that they contain a deadlier poison called opium.  At any rate they seldom cure and often kill.

After drinking our bottle of poisonous slop—­that is, Hostetter’s Bitters—­my friend and I began to boast, and each labored hard to impress the other with his greatness.  In order to make the proper impression, we agreed that it was highly important that we should demonstrate the large quantity we could drink and still be reasonably sober.  I knew of a place a few miles further on—­a place called Hittle’s—­where I felt sure I could get whisky without an immediate outlay of cash, a consideration of importance since neither