In a small New England town, there used to be an Irishman of convivial habits. He _convived_ in season and out of it. In fact, he was in a fair way to qualify as the village drunkard. Late one night—perhaps I should say early one morning—half a dozen natives were on their homeward way after a social evening at the groggery. At the foot of the main street they stumbled upon the recumbent form of the inebriate, whose name was McGuire. Now, they were what used to be known in the old pre-Volstead days as “pickled.” But he was absolutely petrified. At sight of their friend peacefully asleep, thwartwise of the sidewalk, one of the party had an inspiration. “Here,” he said, “is a beautiful chance to cure old McGuire of boozing. Let’s carry him out to the cemetery and stick him in an open grave, if we can find one. Then we’ll hang around and wait until he comes to. He’ll think he’s been buried alive, and the shock will be a lesson to him.” The suggestion met instantaneous approval. The slumberer was picked up by his arms and legs and borne to the burying-ground. Circumstances and chance favored the conspirators. In an ancient vault from which the roof was missing they found an abandoned coffin. Into the empty box they snuggled their victim and, placing the crumbling lid over him for a coverlet, they hid themselves behind adjacent tombstones to await the climax of their plot. The wait was a long one, but all of them stayed on, allured by the prospect that patience eventually would be rewarded. At length dawn showed in the east. Daylight broke; the sun came up and presently it was six o’clock. Prompt on the hour the whistle of a near-by shoe-factory cut into the morning calm with a shrill siren whoop. At this blast Mr. McGuire stirred. He threw up his arms, displacing the lid, sat up in his narrow form-fitting casket, and blinked in the rosy light. Then, as he comprehended where he was, a triumphant smile split his face. “By cripes!” he said exultantly, “’tis the Resurrection Day and I’m the first son-of-a-gun up!” § 213 A Competition Which Was Open to All Two gentlemen connected with the cloakings and suitings trade went to the Catskills on their vacations. Shortly after their arrival they took a tramp among the hills. “I wish,” said one, “that I owned that tallest mountain yonder and that it was all solid gold.” “That’s a lovely thought,” said the other approvingly. “Say, Ike, if that mountain was solid gold and you owned it all by yourself would you give me some of it, huh?” “Certainly I wouldn’t!” said Ike. “Wish yourself a mountain.” § 214 Not the Order of the Bath