Tim O’Hara had been out on the town. Upon reaching the front steps of the wooden porch, he could not remember if there were three or four. As he gingerly put his left foot on the bottom step, he began counting them aloud.“One, two, free, izzit four, fourah? Sh-hh, can’t wake Mabel. Mabel’ll kill me. Woo—ooe, is she gonna’ be mad.” He scratched the stubble on his chin and with effort raised his two hundred pound bulk over the last step. The pitcher of beer he drank had reached his brain. His vision was blurred and double. Stumbling and falling forward against the front door, he knew the damage was done. Mabel was sure to awaken now.