When he opened
his sleepy eyes and raised his expressive ears to a position of
attention, the old familiar coat and battered hat of the elder were
before him. He lifted up his honest voice and cried aloud for joy.
The effect was electrical for one instant. Elder Brown surveyed the
beast with horror, but again in his understanding there rang out the
trumpet words.
"Drunk, drunk, drunk, drer-unc, -er-unc, -unc, -unc."
He stooped instinctively for a missile with which to smite his
accuser, but brought up suddenly with a jerk and a handful of sand.
Straightening himself up with a majestic dignity, he extended his
right hand impressively.
"You're a goldarn liar, Balaam, and, blast your old buttons, you kin
walk home by yourself, for I'm danged if you sh'll ride me er step."
Surely Coriolanus never turned his back upon Rome with a grander
dignity than sat upon the old man's form as he faced about and left
the brute to survey with anxious eyes the new departure of his master.
He saw the elder zigzag along the street, and beheld him about to turn
a friendly corner. Once more he lifted up his mighty voice:
"Drunk, drunk, drunk, drer-unc, drer-unc, -erunc, -unc, -unc.
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