But he was a great man while he lived.

And what I'm coming to is this, the song he used to sing when, in youthful exuberance, we went on the war-path like our young friend over there"-- he pointed to a young habitant farmer, who was trying hard to preserve equilibrium--"Brown's Golden Pectoral will cure that cough, my friend!" he added, as the young man, gloomily ashamed of the laughter of the crowd, hiccoughed and turned away to the tree under which Charley Steele stood.

"Well," he went on, "I was going to say that my friend's name was Charley, and the song he used to sing when the roosters waked the morn was called 'Champagne Charlie.' He was called 'Champagne Charlie'-- till he came to a bad end." He twanged his guitar, cleared his throat, winked at Maximilian Cour the baker, and began: "The way I gained my title's by a hobby which I've got Of never letting others pay, however long the shot; Whoever drinks at my expense is treated all the same; Whoever calls himself my friend, I make him drink champagne.
Some epicures like Burgundy, Hock, Claret, and Moselle, But Moet's vintage only satisfies this champagne swell.
What matter if I go to bed and head is muddled thick, A bottle in the morning sets me right then very quick.
Champagne Charlie is my name; Champagne Charlie is my name.
Who's the man with the heart so young, Who's the man with the ginger tongue?
Champagne Charlie is his name!" Under the tree, Charley Steele listened to this jaunty epitaph on his old self.

At the first words of the coarse song there rushed on him the dreaded thirst.

He felt his veins beating with desire, with anger, disgust, and shame; for there was John Brown, to the applause of the crowd, imitating his old manner, his voice, his very look.