28
The Man from Maine.
pale, haggard face. I wondered how his complaint would develop. Perhaps it was smallpox or measles by this time.
A glance at my watch assured me that the sun had passed the meridian. Bringing out the flask I had filled at Boston, and unscrewing the top, I said, "Stranger, will you join me?"
"Thanks, very much," he replied; "I am a Maine man—"
As the train slowed up at Portland, the remainder of his sentence was drowned in the gurgling sound of liquor that flowed gently and smoothly as in a familiar channel.
