Fitzgerald enterprise. (Fitzgerald, Ga.) 1895-1912, 1910-11-08
HOCH DER HOKE.
The Saturday Evening Post.

1t is one of the tavOrlte lars OF
the Demon Rum in Atlanta, Georgia,
in the days when the demon was a
demon instead of a blind tiger or a
blind pig, as the case may be at
present. Seated about the glowing
fire or standing in groups are fifteen
a Score-of desperate
men, sworn to have the lifeblood of
our hero.
Kill him. the leader Kisses as
well as may be, the Kissing not be-
ing particularly good because of a
lack of sibilants in those terrifying
words.
Aye, lads, kill him!' Kisses an
other capable hisser, which pleasant
remark is followed by hoarse-in-
deed a gutteral-roar of He must
die!" from many if not all of the gen
ial gentleman present. Weapons
are produced and handled signifi-
cantly. From the looks of things
our hero has a right to be concerned
about the stability of the company
carrying his life insurance.
Boy" Kisses hisser number one,
we must exterminate this presump-
tuous fledgling of the law who has
dared to assail one Of our compan-
ions for the mere slaughter Of cit
izen who"
Kill him!" Again that raucous
roar, that hideous demand for gore,
coupled rather insistently, it may be
said, with demands for drinks
Plans are laid. The assassination
is scheduled for that very night.
Three tried and true marksmen are
told off to do the deed.
Silence falls upon the room while
the three men selected to carry out
the vengeance of the band look at
their weapons-their trusty wea-
pons, to be exact.
But, bark! What noise is that?
The clatter of hoofs-the CHATTER of
hoofs! A coal black steed, urged to
a gallop by an impetuous rider.
surges into the quiet street.
"WhoaT" The clarion command
rings out.
The coal black steed stops before
the gilded entrance of the lair of the
Demon Rum. The conspirators in
side stand with bated-baited-
breaths.
OUR HERO ENTERS THE AssAssINs DEN
Alighting gracefully from his horse
our hero, for it was none other,
strides into the lair. Tall, with flash
ing eye and impetuous mien, he in
deed looks the part-hero, you I'M
derstand. Pausing near the end of
the bar he surveys the astonished
assassins. Then he proceeds slowly
around the room, looking each man
present in the eye until the owner
of each individual eye quails before
his glance.
Not a word is spoken.
Then, having completed the cir
cult of the room, our hero, shoulder
ing several of the abashed conspira-
tors away from the point of vantage
lust in front of the bartender, shouts,
in thunder tones: Give me a lemon
ade!"
Watching the barkeeper closely
to see that he uses real lemons
instead of acid dope out of bottle
in preparing this delicious beverage,
our hero presents a picture of manly
grace and courage and is undeniably
full of assurance. He takes the
decoction handed to him by the
bartender and with a hooking
Here's howl" drinks it slowly. Then,
placing the glass on the polished
bar, he emits just one word, but
that one with a world of scorn:
Bah !"
So saying, he stalks negligently
from the room, leaving the conspi-
rators in various attitudes of dejec-
ton and abasement, mounts the
coal-black steed and rides slowly up
the street.
Several minutes pass. Finally
one of the Drawer members of the
x~o,sv1 d;x,oc foodIo RI tho sentiments