and went to the city, and
dined out, a cocktail served at table was a wan and worthless thing.
There was no pre-dinner kick in it. On my way to dinner I was compelled
to accumulate the kick--two cocktails, three, and, if I met some fellows,
four or five, or six, it didn't matter within several. Once, I was in a
rush. I had no time decently to accumulate the several drinks. A
brilliant idea came to me. I told the barkeeper to mix me a double
cocktail. Thereafter, whenever I was in a hurry, I ordered double
cocktails. It saved time.

One result of this regular heavy drinking was to jade me. My mind grew
so accustomed to spring and liven by artificial means that without
artificial means it refused to spring and liven. Alcohol became more and
more imperative in order to meet people, in order to become sociably fit.
I had to get the kick and the hit of the stuff, the crawl of the maggots,
the genial brain glow, the laughter tickle, the touch of devilishness and
sting, the smile over the face of things, ere I could join my fellows and
make one with them.

Another result was that John Barleycorn was beginning to trip me up. He
was thrusting my long sickness back upon me, inveigling me into again
pursuing Truth and snatching her veils away from her, tricking me into
looking reality stark in the face. But this came on gradually. My
thoughts were growing harsh again, though they grew harsh slowly.

Sometimes warning thoughts crossed my mind. Where was this steady
drinking leading? But trust John Barleycorn to silence such questions.
"Come on and have a drink and I'll tell you all about it," is his way.
And it works. For instance, the following is a case in point, and one
which John Barleycorn never wearied of reminding me:

I had suffered an accident which required a ticklish operation. One
morning, a week after I had come off the table, I lay on my hospital bed,
weak and weary. The sunburn of my face, what little of it could be seen
through a scraggly growth of beard, had faded to a sickly yellow. My
doctor stood at my bedside on the verge of departure. He glared
disapprovingly at the cigarette I was smoking.

"That's what you ought to quit," he lectured. "It will get you in the
end. Look at me."

I looked. He was about my own age, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, eyes
sparkling, and ruddy-cheeked with health. A finer specimen of manhood
one would not ask.

"I used to smoke," he went on. "Cigars.