There was entirely too much life in it.

That was the trouble.

Sitting among a lot of fancy glassware on a back bar it looked as innocent of evil as a newborn babe, but, presto change! and a moment afterwards it was its Satanic Majesty on a rampage, and that back bar with its glassware looked as if it had been struck by a Kansas cyclone.
Complaints began to pour in to the factory from all kinds and classes of customers, and I began to be afraid to walk the streets for fear that some one would accuse me of having bottled dynamite instead of ginger-beer.
I sold a case of it to a friend of mine who kept a noted sporting resort on South Clark street, Chicago.

It was harmless enough when I sold it to him.

It was young then, and its propensity for mischief had not been fully developed.