A prominent Houston colonel, who is also a leading church member,
started for church last Sunday morning with his family, as was his
custom. He was serene and solid-looking, and his black frock coat and
light gray trousers fitted him snugly and stylishly. They passed along
Main Street on the way to church, and the colonel happened to think of
a letter on his desk that he wanted, so he told his family to wait at
the door a moment while he stopped in his office to get it. He went in
and got the letter, and, to his surprise, there was a
disreputable-looking pint whisky flask with about an ounce of whisky
left in it standing on his desk. The colonel abominates whisky and
never touches a drop of anything strong. He supposed that someone,
knowing this, had passed his desk, and set the flask there by way of a
mild joke.
He looked about for a place to throw the bottle, but the back door was
locked, and he tried unsuccessfully to raise the window that
overlooked the alley. The colonel's wife, wondering why he was so long
in coming, opened the door and surprised him, so that scarcely
thinking what he was doing he thrust the flask under his coat tail
into his hip pocket.
"Why don't you come on?" asked his wife. "Didn't you find the letter?"
He couldn't do anything but go with her. He should have produced the
bottle right there, and explained the situation, but he neglected his
opportunity. He went on down Main Street with his family, with the
pint flask feeling as big as a keg in his pocket. He was afraid some
of them would notice it bulging under his coat, so he lagged somewhat
in the rear. When he entered his pew at church and sat down there was
a sharp crack, and the odor of mean whisky began to work its way
around the church. The colonel saw several people elevate their noses
and look inquiringly around, and he turned as red as a beet. He heard
a female voice in the pew behind him whisper loudly:
"Old Colonel J is drunk again. They say he is hardly ever sober now,
and some people say he beats his wife nearly every day."
The colonel recognized the voice of one of the most notorious female
gossipers in Houston. He turned around and glared at her. She then
whispered a little louder:
"Look at him. He really looks dangerous. And to come to church that
way, too!"
* * * * *
The colonel knew that the bottle had cracked and he was afraid to
move, but a piece of it fell out on the floor. He usually knelt during
prayer, but today he sat bolt upright on the seat. His wife noticed
his unusual behavior and whispered:
"James, you don't know how you pain me. You don't pray any more. I
knew what the result would be when I let you go to hear Ingersoll
lecture. You are an infidel. And--what is that I smell? Oh, James, you
have been drinking, and on Sunday, too!"
The colonel's wife put her handkerchief to her eyes, and he ground his
teeth in rage.
After the services were over, and they had reached home, his wife took
her seat on the back porch and began to cap some strawberries for
dinner. This prevented his going out in the back yard and throwing the
bottle over the fence, as he had intended. His two little boys hung
close around him, as they always did on Sunday, and he found it
impossible to get rid of it. He took them out for a stroll in the
front yard. Finally, he sent them both in the house on some pretext,
and drawing out the bottle hurled it into the street. The crack in it
had been only a slight one, and as it struck a soft heap of trash when
it fell, it did not break.
The colonel felt immediately relieved, but just as the little boys ran
back he heard a voice in the street say:
"See here, sir, law's against throwing glass in the street. I saw you
do it, but take it back, and it'll be all right this time."
The colonel turned and saw a big policeman handing the terrible bottle
towards him over the fence. He took it and thrust it back into his
pocket with a low but expressive remark. His little boys ran up and
shouted:
"Oh, papa, what was that the policeman gave you? Let's see it!"
They clutched at his coat tails, and grabbed for his pockets, and the
colonel backed against the fence.
"Go away from here, you little devils," he yelled. "Go in the house or
I'll thrash you both."
* * * * *
The colonel went into the house and put on his hat. He resolved to get
rid of the bottle if he had to walk a mile to do it.
"Where are you going?" asked his wife in astonishment. "Dinner is
almost ready. Why don't you pull off your coat and cool off, James, as
you usually do?"
She gazed at him with the deepest suspicion, and that irritated him.
"Confound the dinner," he said, angrily. "I'm hungry--no, I mean I'm
sick; I don't want any dinner--I'm going to take a walk."
"Papa, please show us what the policeman gave you," said one of his
little boys.
"Policeman!" echoed the colonel's wife. "Oh, James, to think that you
would act this way! I know you haven't been drinking, but what is the
matter with you? Come in and lie down. Let me pull off your coat."
She tried to pull off the colonel's Prince Albert, as she generally
did, but he got furiously angry and danced away from her.
"Take your hands off me, woman," he cried. "I've got a headache, and
I'm going for a walk. I'll throw the blamed thing away if I have to go
to the North Pole to do it."
The colonel's wife shook her head as he went out the gate.
"He's working too hard," she said. "Maybe a walk will do him good."
The colonel went down several blocks watching for an opportunity to
dispose of the flask. There were a good many people on the streets,
and there seemed to be always somebody looking at him.
Two or three of the colonel's friends met him, and stared at him
curiously. His face was much flushed, his hat was on the back of his
head and there was a wild glare in his eyes. Some of them passed
without speaking, and the colonel laughed bitterly. He was getting
desperate. Whenever he would get to a vacant lot, he would stop and
gaze searchingly in every direction to see if the coast was clear, so
that he could pull out the flask and drop it. People began to watch
him from windows, and two or three little boys began to follow him.
The colonel turned around and spoke sharply to them, and they replied:
"Look at the old guy with a jag on lookin' for a place to lie down.
W'y don't yer go to de calaboose and snooze it off, mister?"
* * * * *
The colonel finally dodged the boys, and his spirits rose as he saw
before him a vacant square covered with weeds, in some places as high
as his head.
Here was a place where he could get rid of the bottle. The minister of
his church lived on the opposite side of the vacant square, but the
weeds were so high that the house was completely hidden.
The colonel looked guiltily around and seeing no one, plunged into a
path that led through the weeds. When he reached the center, where
they were highest, he stopped and drew the whisky flask from his
pocket. He looked at it a moment; smiled grimly, and said aloud:
"Well, you've given me lots of trouble that nobody knows anything
about but me."
He was about to drop the flask when he heard a noise, and looking up
he saw his minister standing in the path before him, gazing at him
with horrified eyes.
"My dear Colonel J----," said the good man. "You distress me beyond
measure. I never knew that you drank. I am indeed deeply grieved to
see you here in this condition."
The colonel was infuriated beyond control. "Don't give a d--- if you
are," he shouted. "I'm drunk as a biled owl, and I don't care who
knows it. I'm always drunk. I've drunk 15,000 gallons of whisky in the
last two weeks. I'm a bad man about this time every Sunday. Here goes
the bottle once more for luck."
He hurled the flask at the minister and it struck him on the ear and
broke into twenty pieces. The minister let out a yell and turned and
ran back to his house.
The colonel gathered a pile of stones and hid among the tall weeds,
resolved to fight the whole town as long as his ammunition held out.
His hard luck had made him desperate. An hour later three mounted
policemen got into the weeds, and the colonel surrendered. He had
cooled off by that time enough to explain matters, and as he was well
known to be a perfectly sober and temperate citizen, he was allowed to
go home.
But you can't get him to pick up a bottle now, empty or full.
(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.)