viewed it from every angle I could think of. I knew what sort of a
job I had laid out to tackle if I quit. I weighed the whole thing in my
mind in the light of my acquaintances, my experiences, my position, my
mode of life, my business. I had been through it many times. I had
often gone on the waterwagon for periods varying in length from three
days to three months. I wasn't venturing into any uncharted territory.
I knew every signpost, every crossroad, every foot of the ground. I
knew the difficulties--knew them by heart. I wasn't deluding myself
with any assertions of superior will-power or superior courage--or
superior anything. I knew I had a fixed daily habit of drinking, and
that if I quit drinking I should have to reorganize the entire works.

CHAPTER II

HOW I QUIT

This took some time. I didn't dash into it. I had done that before, and
had dashed out again just as impetuously. I revolved the matter in my
mind for some weeks. Then I decided to quit. Then I did quit. Thereby
hangs this tale.

I went to a dinner one night that was a good dinner. It was a dinner
that had every appurtenance that a good dinner should have, including
the best things to drink that could be obtained, and lashings of them.
I proceeded at that dinner just as I had proceeded at scores of similar
dinners in my time--hundreds of them, I guess--and took a drink every
time anybody else did. I was a seasoned drinker. I knew how to do it. I
went home that night pleasantly jingled, but no more. I slept well, ate
a good breakfast and went down to business. On the way down I decided
that this was the day to make the plunge. Having arrived at that
decision, I went out about three o'clock that afternoon, drank a Scotch
highball--a big, man's-sized one--as a doch-an-doris, and quit. That
was almost a year ago. I haven't taken a drink since. It is not my
present intention ever to take another drink; but I am not tying myself
down by any vows. It is not my present intention, I say; and I let it
go at that.

No man can be blamed for trying to fool other people about
himself--that is the way most of us get past; but what can be said for
a man who tries to fool himself? Every man knows exactly how bogus he
is and should admit it--to himself only. The man who, knowing his
bogusness, refuses to admit it to himself--no matter what his attitude
may be to the outside world--simply stores up trouble for himself, and
discomfort and much else. There