“'Why,' said he, 'I've made up my mind to swear off fer good an' all, an' I want you to jine me.' “I agreed all right,” Pole laughed. “In fact, I was sorter in that business; I'd promised every preacher an' temperance worker in the county to quit, an' I couldn't refuse a friend what I was dispensin' so freely right an' left. So I said, said I: 'All right, Nelson, I'm with you.'” “And how did it come out?” questioned the planter, as he bowed to a wagonful of farmers going in an opposite direction. “His vaccination tuck,” Pole smiled. “He had a mighty sore arm fer a week or so, but he helt out. As fer me, I was so dem glad to see his success in abstainin' that I started in to celebrate. I did try, though. One mornin' I went in the store an' seed Nelson have sech a clean, prosperous look an' so well satisfied with his stand that I went out with fresh resolutions. What did I do? I went to the bar-room an' bought four pint bottles o' red rye an' tuck 'em home with me. I set 'em all in a straight row on the mantel-shelf, nigh the edge, in front o' the clock, an' was standin' lookin' at 'em when Sally, my wife, come in. She seed the display, an' jest set kerflop down in her chair an' begun to whimper. “'You hold on!' said I; 'don't you cross a foot-log till the tree's down. I'm tryin' a new dicker. I've always heard that “familiarity breeds contempt,” an' I've also heard that “the hair o' the dog is good fer the bite.” Now, I've tried my level best to quit liquor by stayin' away from it, an' I'm a-goin' to see ef I cayn't do it with its eye on me all the time.' Well, sir, the sweet little woman--she's a sweet, dear little creature, Captain Duncan, ef I do say it myse'f.” “I've always heard so, Baker,” the planter said. “She's very popular with your neighbors.” “An' I'm jest t'other way,” said Pole. “Well, Sally she got up an' kissed me, an' said that somehow she felt like my plan would work.” “And did it?--I mean”--the captain recalled Pole's spree of only the night before--“I mean, did it work for any length of time?” “I was goin' on to tell you,” answered the mountaineer. “That night fer the fust time sence my marriage I woke smack dab in the middle o' the night, an' as I laid thar in the room filled with moonlight I couldn't see a blessed thing but that row o' bottles, an' then my mouth set in to waterin' at sech a rate that I got afeard I'd ketch my death from sleepin' on a wet pillow. It was certainly a struggle with the flesh. I'd put my thirst, captain, when she's good an' dry, ag'in any that ever tickled a human throat. It ud take the blue ribbon at a convention o' drunkards. It's a rale thing; it kin walk, an' talk, an' kick, an' squirm, but it won't be dictated to. Finally Sally woke up an' said: “'What's the matter, Pole? Hain't you comfortable?'