He was as drunk as a lord all day long, and full of chucklings over his timely ingenuity.

One drunken man necessarily reminds one of another.  I once heard a gentleman tell about an incident which he witnessed in a Californian bar-room.  He entitled it “Ye Modest Man Taketh a Drink.”  It was nothing but a bit of acting, but it seemed to me a perfect rendering, and worthy of Toodles himself.  The modest man, tolerably far gone with beer and other matters, enters a saloon (twenty-five cents is the price for anything and everything, and specie the only money used) and lays down a half dollar; calls for whiskey and drinks it; the bar-keeper makes change and lays the quarter in a wet place on the counter; the modest man fumbles at it with nerveless fingers, but it slips and the water holds it; he contemplates it, and tries again; same result; observes that people are interested in what he is at, blushes; fumbles at the quarter again—­blushes—­puts his forefinger carefully, slowly down, to make sure of his aim—­pushes the coin toward the bar-keeper, and says with a sigh: 

“Gimme a cigar!”

Naturally, another gentleman present told about another drunken man.  He said he reeled toward home late at night; made a mistake and entered the wrong gate; thought he saw a dog on the stoop; and it was—­an iron one.

He stopped and considered; wondered if it was a dangerous dog; ventured to say “Be (hic) begone!” No effect.  Then he approached warily, and adopted conciliation; pursed up his lips and tried to whistle, but failed; still approached, saying, “Poor dog!—­doggy, doggy, doggy!—­poor doggy-dog!” Got up on the stoop, still petting with fond names; till master of the advantages; then exclaimed, “Leave, you thief!”—­planted a vindictive kick in his ribs, and went head-over-heels overboard, of course.  A pause; a sigh or two of pain, and then a remark in a reflective voice: 

“Awful solid dog.  What could he ben eating? (’ic!) Rocks, p’raps.  Such animals is dangerous.—­’ At’s what I say—­they’re dangerous.  If a man—­(’ic!)—­if a man wants to feed a dog on rocks, let him feed him on rocks; ‘at’s all right; but let him keep him at home—­not have him layin’ round promiscuous, where (’ic!) where people’s liable to stumble over him when they ain’t noticin’!”

It was not without regret that I took a last look at the tiny flag (it was thirty-five feet long and ten feet wide) fluttering like a lady’s handkerchief from the topmost peak of Mount Davidson, two thousand feet above Virginia’s roofs, and felt that doubtless I was bidding a permanent farewell to a city which had afforded me the most vigorous enjoyment of life I had ever experienced.  And this reminds me of an incident which the dullest memory Virginia could boast at the time it happened must vividly recall, at times, till its possessor dies.  Late one summer afternoon we had a rain shower.