A drunken man once approached a friend of mine with a remark which he did not understand, as he was deaf, so he merely shook his head and turned away. The intoxicated man, full of fight, followed, shouting challenges and pulling off his coat. A crowd gathered about them, and two rough-looking fellows got behind the deaf man and offered to act as his seconds. One of them advised: “Give him an upper cut on the chin whisker and follow it up with one on his basket!” What the deaf man did was to pull out his notebook and pencil and give them to the drunken man, who now was quite ready for the fray. “I cannot hear a word you say. Write it out for me!” This is offered as a suggestion to the peace-makers, that they may be more blessed than ever before. Whenever a man curses you, and you want to gain time—ask him to write it out! Here the drunken man looked curiously at the deaf man and then at the notebook. He pondered deeply for a moment and then slowly began to put on his coat. He walked unsteadily to a little box nearby, mounted it carefully and delivered a short speech something like this: “Ladies and gentlemen, I am wrong. This man is not my enemy, but my friend, made so through affliction. He is in need. I suggest that we all chip in and help him on his way. I’ll start with the price of three drinks! Come now, loosen up! He who giveth let him give quickly!” Once I lived in the house with a kindly man who had a fierce craving for drink. He really fought against it, but it mastered him again and again. One year at Christmas he had gone for several months without drinking. He was like a consumptive who imagines that he has overcome his disease while it still lurks within only waiting for favorable conditions to blaze up. A few days before Christmas several old friends stepped out of his wild past and broke down the man’s self-control. When I came home he was “roaring drunk”—I had never seen him in worse condition. As I came up the stairs he rushed suddenly out of his room and caught me unexpectedly by the collar. As I was taken off my guard he was able to pull me inside the room, shut the door and throw himself against it. At that time I could hear much of what he said. He glared at me like a maniac. His fists were clenched, his eyes were bloodshot and he was altogether a terrifying and a pitiful spectacle. I expected him to throw himself upon me, and I was ready. I had no idea wherein I had offended, and I did not want to hurt him. I derided that when he sprang at me I would sidestep and give him the “French trip” which I had learned in the lumber camps. That will floor anyone who is not prepared for it, and I knew that I could tie him if necessary. But there was no fight in him except the frightful battle he was waging against himself. His fists opened and he held out his hands appealingly. “_I’ve brought you here to pray for me!_ Get right down on your knees and pray that I may be a man and not a skunk!”