Look at old man Nichols. He's
eighty-two years old and up to about a year ago he never missed a
day without taking a couple o' swigs of rye. He swears he wouldn't
have lived to be more than seventy-five if he hadn't taken his
daily nip. That shows how smart and sensible our doctors are out
here. They--"
"By the way, Mrs. Nichols appears to be a remarkably well-preserved
old lady,--aside from her hearing. How old is she?"
"Eighty-three. Wonderful old woman."
"I suppose she has always had her daily swig of rye."
Charlie Webster was silent for a moment. He had to think. This was
a very serious and unexpected complication.
"What did you say?" he inquired, fencing for time.
"Has she always been a steady drinker, like the old man?"
Charlie was a gentleman. He sighed.
"I guess it's time to change the subject," he said. "The only way
you could get a spoonful of whiskey down that old woman would be
to chloroform her. If I'm any good at guessin', she'll outlive the
old man by ten years,--so what's the sense of me preachin' to you
about the life preserving virtues of booze? Oh, Lordy! There's
another of my best arguments knocked galley-west. It's no use. I've
been playing old man Nichols for nearly fifteen years as a bright
and shining light, and he turns out to be nothing but a busted
flush. She's had eleven children and he's never had anything worse
than a headache, and, by gosh, he's hangin' onto her with both hands
for support to keep his other foot from slippin' into the grave.
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