IN early days, Ben Overton kept a little grocery store in the woods, and when James Mitchell quit making whiskey, Ben went to St. Louis and bought a barrel of whiskey and put out the word that he would not sell it in any other way but by the drink, a picayune a drink. The men did not like him very well, they said he was mean. When Ben got home, on the Saturday after, the men gathered there from ten miles around, and now Ben thought he would have a big day. The men had their jugs hid in the bushes, and soon one of my uncle’s and Bill Doyle got into a fight, just out under some trees, then while Ben’s attention was diverted, the men run in at the back door and filled up their jugs, also one for each of the combatants, and when the last jug was full some one hollered: “Part ’em.” They did not hardly leave Ben whiskey enough to “drown his trouble.”