"Talking about dry towns, have you ever been in Leavenworth, Kansas?" asked the commercial traveler in the smoking-car. "No? Well, that's a dry town for you, all right."
"They can't sell liquor at all there?" asked one of the men.
"Only if you had been bitten by a snake," said the drummer. "They have only one snake in town, and when I got to it the other day after standing in line for nearly half a day it was too tired to bite."
It was prohibition country. As soon as the train pulled up, a seedy little man with a covered basket on his arm hurried to the open windows of the smoker and exhibited a quart bottle filled with rich, dark fluid.
"Want to buy some nice cold tea?" he asked, with just the suspicion of a wink.
Two thirsty-looking cattlemen brightened visibly, and each paid a dollar for a bottle.
"Wait until you get outer the station before you take a drink," the little man cautioned them. "I don't wanter get in trouble."
He found three other customers before the train pulled out, in each case repeating his warning.
"You seem to be doing a pretty good business," remarked a man who had watched it all. "But I don't see why you'd run any more risk of getting in trouble if they took a drink before the train started."
"Ye don't, hey? Well, what them bottles had in 'em, pardner, was real cold tea."
The objector to prohibition spoke bitterly:
"Water has killed more folks than liquor ever did."
"You are raving," declared the defender of the Eighteenth Amendment. "How do you make that out?"
"Well, to begin with, there was the Flood."
The wife complained to her husband that the chauffeur was very drunk indeed, and must be discharged instantly.
"Discharged—nothing!" the husband retorted joyously. "When he's sobered off, I'll have him take me out and show me where he got it."