Here's Luck by Lennie Lower

Late in the afternoon things were very bad. Both Stanley and George were acting like the beasts of the fields and and woods. They dragged themselves about the house, kicking things about and bumping into things and cursing me. It has always been my opinion that if a man cannot drink without making a beast of himself, he should not drink at all and seeing that nearly twenty-four hours had elapsed since they'd had anything to drink--or eat, I could find no excuse for their boorishness. I can understand a man feeling a little off colour after a few mugs of whisky. I felt a bit leadenish myself, but to keep it up all day! Disgusting. It practically amounted to a mutiny. When I say a mutiny, I mean that I have always been recognized as the head and leader in any company. I am not a domineering man, but there is something about me, some innate air of authority that has always made men look up to me and respect me. I remember, when I was a small boy, my mother took me to a phrenologist. After examining me, he said, "Madam, your son is a remarkable type; his bump of philosophy is enormous while the authoritative region of his cranium is abnormal. He is a born leader." Unfortunately, my mother, who was a simple soul and not versed in the phrenological jargon, got the idea that a born leader was a man who walked in front of a road-roller carrying a red flag, or Number One in a chain-gang, so my talents were never exploited or encouraged. Despite this lack of opportunity to display my gifts as a leader of men I have always been respected and looked up to, as I have said before. It therefore came as a blow to me when Stanley, speaking to George in an undertone, said, "He's mad!" I knew he meant me.

George agreed with him.