muddled, so beclouded with the fumes of the infernal “bitters” and whisky that I thought I had burned a city.  While I was trying to solve the mystery of my course, I was aided by a revelation so sudden that it startled me, for the owner of the hound came galloping up and fiercely demanded to know where his dog was.  He rated us severely—­accused us of stealing the animal, and threatened to prosecute us then and there.  I knew what we had done.  In the meantime some one opened the door of the crib and turned out the hound.  He must have recognized the voice of his master, for he joined the latter in his howling, and between them they gave us good reason to wish that our ambition to keep that dog’s company had been in vain.  The dog was more easily pacified than the man, but finally on our offering to give him three plugs of tobacco to hush up the affair, he became quiet and smoothed the ragged front of his anger.  On adding a cigar or two to the plugs, he brightened up and said we might have the “darned houn’” any how, if we wanted him.  But we had had enough of his society and were willing to part from him without further expense.

I don’t think, seriously speaking, that I ever suffered more keenly from the stings of remorse and fear than I did for one week after this debauch.  The remarkable part of it to me was our determination to take the dog.  All my life I have disliked dogs—­dogs in general and hounds in particular.  I resolved never to drink again, and for some time kept the resolution.

A few weeks following this “spree” there was an exhibition at the school house, and several of the larger boys—­myself among the number—­assembled themselves together, and, after a consultation, decided that, in order to make the exhibition a success, there should be a limited amount of whisky secured for our special use.  We took up a collection, each contributing a few cents, and two of the largest, tallest, and stoutest boys were dispatched to Vienna, a small village three miles distant, to get it.  A vision of hounds passed before me, but the desire to get a drink drove them yelping out of memory.  The boys, on reaching Vienna, bargained for three gallons of liquor, and brought it to our general headquarters.  It was wretched stuff—­the vilest, meanest, rottenest poison that ever went under the name of whisky.  The boys who got it had carried it the three miles by passing a stick through the handle of the jug.  They got drunk on the way back with it, and one of them fell into a branch, dragging the jug and the other boy after him.  Unfortunately the jug was not broken, and fortunately the boys were not seriously hurt.  It was a little after dark when they stumbled across the meeting house yard to where we awaited them.  The following day we attacked the contents of the jug, and before midnight we were all drunk—­some rather moderately drunk, some very drunk, and some dead drunk, as the phrase is.  I myself was of the number that were dead drunk.  Some of the boys kept sober enough to fight, but I never would fight, drunk or sober.  I do not think I am a coward as regards personal courage, and I really think the fear of hurting others restrained me from ever mixing in brawls in those days.