“‘It’s all right, Andy,’ says I, ’to drink the health of our brother monopolists, but don’t overdo the wassail.  You know our most eminent and loathed multi-corruptionists live on weak tea and dog biscuits.’

“Andy went in the back room awhile and came out dressed in his best clothes.  There was a kind of murderous and soulful look of gentle riotousness in his eye that I didn’t like.  I watched him to see what turn the whiskey was going to take in him.  There are two times when you never can tell what is going to happen.  One is when a man takes his first drink; and the other is when a woman takes her latest.

“In less than an hour Andy’s skate had turned to an ice yacht.  He was outwardly decent and managed to preserve his aquarium, but inside he was impromptu and full of unexpectedness.

“‘Jeff,’ says he, ‘do you know that I’m a crater—­a living crater?’

“‘That’s a self-evident hypothesis,’ says I.  ’But you’re not Irish.  Why don’t you say ‘creature,’ according to the rules and syntax of America?’

“‘I’m the crater of a volcano,’ says he.  ’I’m all aflame and crammed inside with an assortment of words and phrases that have got to have an exodus.  I can feel millions of synonyms and parts of speech rising in me,’ says he, ‘and I’ve got to make a speech of some sort.  Drink,’ says Andy, ‘always drives me to oratory.’

“‘It could do no worse,’ says I.

“‘From my earliest recollections,’ says he, ’alcohol seemed to stimulate my sense of recitation and rhetoric.  Why, in Bryan’s second campaign,’ says Andy, ’they used to give me three gin rickeys and I’d speak two hours longer than Billy himself could on the silver question.  Finally, they persuaded me to take the gold cure.’

“‘If you’ve got to get rid of your excess verbiage,’ says I, ’why not go out on the river bank and speak a piece?  It seems to me there was an old spell-binder named Cantharides that used to go and disincorporate himself of his windy numbers along the seashore.’

“‘No,’ says Andy, ’I must have an audience.  I feel like if I once turned loose people would begin to call Senator Beveridge the Grand Young Sphinx of the Wabash.  I’ve got to get an audience together, Jeff, and get this oral distension assuaged or it may turn in on me and I’d go about feeling like a deckle-edge edition de luxe of Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth.’

“’On what special subject of the theorems and topics does your desire for vocality seem to be connected with?’ I asks.

“‘I ain’t particular,’ says Andy.  ’I am equally good and varicose on all subjects.  I can take up the matter of Russian immigration, or the poetry of John W. Keats, or the tariff, or Kabyle literature, or drainage, and make my audience weep, cry, sob and shed tears by turns.’

“‘Well, Andy,’ says I, ’if you are bound to get rid of this accumulation of vernacular suppose you go out in town and work it on some indulgent citizen.  Me and the boys will take care of the business.  Everybody will be through dinner pretty soon, and salt pork and beans makes a man pretty thirsty.  We ought to take in $1,500 more by midnight.’