Somebody Lied
Two men went into a on Main Street yesterday and up to the bar. One was an old man with gray , the other was a long, lanky youth, evidently his son. Both were dressed like farm hands and they appeared somewhat bewildered at the splendor of the saloon.
The asked them what they would have.
The old man leaned across the bar and said hoarsely and mysteriously: “You see, , me an’ Lem just sold a load of tomatters and green corn nineteen dollars en a half. The old woman at home figgered we’d just sixteen dollars and a quarter fer the truck, so me and Lem is three twenty-five ahead. When folks makes a big strike they most al’ays gets drunk, and es me and Lem never was drunk, we says, we’ll drunk and see how it feels. The feelin’s pretty bully, ain’t it?”
“Some think so,” said the , “what’ll you have?”
They both called for whisky and stood against the bar until they had taken some five or six drinks apiece.
“Feel good, Lem?” asked the old man.
“Not a dam bit,” said the son.
“Don’t feel like shoutin’ and raisin’ Cain?”
“No.”
“Don’t feel good at all?”
“No. Feel like the devil. Feel sick, en burnin’ inside.”
“Is head buzzin’, Lem, and er achin’?”
“Yes, Dad, en is knees a kind er wobblin’, en yer eyes a waterin’?”
“You bet, en is yer stummick er gripin’ en does yer feel like yer had swallowed a wild cat en er litter of kittens?”
“Yes, Dad, and don’t you wish we wuz to home, whar we could lie down in ther clover patch en kick?”
“Yes, sonny, this here is what comes of goin’ back on yer ma. Does yer feel real bad?”
“Bad ez ther devil, Dad.”
“Look a here, mister,” said the old man to the bartender, “somebody has lied to us about the fun in gettin’ drunk. We’re a goin’ home and never goin’ to do it again. I’d ruther hev the blind staggers, the itch, en the cramp colic all to onct, then ter git drunk. Come on, sonny, en let’s hunt the waggin.”