The Old Reporter
all that was in him after the ideal—which no one ever reaches, but which kept him keyed up all day, and then let him down so hard when the paper went to press.
He had always been too busy with exterior sights and sounds to be troubled with in-growing thoughts, but when midnight came, and he had wound up his last story, and had nothing else to be intense over—with nerves stretched and hand trembling—there came disquieting sensations which sometimes made him feel—but he knew a way to get rid of these feelings.
Billy Woods not only drank, but he got drunk. It was not that he did not know when to stop; of course he knew when to stop. Nor did a "demon" get into him, as they say in the temperance tracts; he did not want to stop. He got drunk because he liked it. It was glorious. And everything swung around, soothingly straightened out, and became sunny and warm. The world was beautiful and lovable, as when he was a kid down home; and he believed you to be worthy of his liking once more, and even of his respect, and he glowed and was glad,
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