capacity for the Rhine whiskey had
been impaired by his imprisonment, and it was not long before he began
to feel the effects of his liquor. A full pint in his hip pocket, Sandy,
finally, broke away from his companions and started up the railroad
tracks for the Silent City. Staggering a little, he meditated with
drunken seriousness what he had done and was going to do.

Famished by his detention in prison, he hungered for the sight of Tess.
All the fierce passion of his undisciplined nature clamored for her. And
when he had her, he'd carry out all the brutalities conceived in the
long nights in his cell. He'd find out the father of her boy. If that
duffer, Waldstricker, could discover it, he could. He'd make Tess tell.
He'd show Young, too. He'd get even with the lawyer for helping send him
to Auburn. His grievance grew more active every step he carried his load
of liquor through the broiling sun, the long four miles from Ithaca.

"Wait till I get 'em," he muttered over and over, "I'll show 'em what's
what."

Before he reached the lane leading past Young's place to the Skinner
shack, he left the tracks and climbed the fence. Throwing his legs over
the top, he sat down to enjoy the breeze which blew from the green
lake, and, vibrating the leaves and bowing the shrubs and grasses, swept
up and over the hill into the illimitable space beyond. Sandy wanted
another drink, and reached back to his hip for it. The bottle stuck in
the pocket and he jerked at it savagely. He pulled it out, but he, also,
lost his balance, and in his efforts to save himself from falling,
smashed the bottle on the top rail of the fence. The whiskey ran down to
the ground and the thirsty moss drank it up.

Letts gazed at the jagged-edged glass in his hand, stupefied by the
magnitude of his calamity. Then he drew a long breath and cursed his
luck. He cursed the bottle, the fence, the whiskey, Waldstricker, who'd
sent him, and Tess and the unknown man, on whose account he'd been sent.
His maledictions included everything except his own drunken clumsiness.

Bye and bye, he got down from the fence, muttering and grumbling to
himself. Cautiously, in spite of his inflamed temper, he worked his way
through the trees. There was no sign of life about the house, but large
hammocks swung in the breeze on the porch. The squatter walked around
and around, keeping far enough away so his movements could not be
noticed. He stopped under a large tree to look up