"Steward, I sawed out!" Dag Daughtry held forth and up his beer-bottle as he said gravely and sincerely: "Sir, I salute you." "And I thank you, sir--you understand," the Ancient Mariner replied with simple dignity to the toast, touching his glass to the bottle and drinking with the steward eyes to eyes.
"I should have had one hundred and fifty-six dollars when I left the poor- farm," the ancient one continued.

"But there were the two weeks I lost, with influenza, and the one week from a confounded pleurisy, so that I emerged from that place of the living dead with but one hundred and fifty- one dollars and fifty cents." "I see, sir," Daughtry interrupted with honest admiration.

"The tiny saw had become a crowbar, and with it you were going back to break into life again." All the scarred face and washed eyes of Charles Stough Greenleaf beamed as he held his glass up.
"Steward, I salute you.

You understand.

And you have said it well.