IX + 

George Farr had been quite drunk for a week. His friend, the drug-clerk, thought that he was going crazy. He had become a local landmark, a tradition: even the town soaks began to look upon him with respect, calling him by his given name, swearing undying devotion to him. + 

In the intervals of belligerent or rollicking or maudlin inebriation he knew periods of devastating despair like a monstrous bliss, like that of a caged animal, of a man being slowly tortured to death: a minor monotony of pain. As a rule, though, he managed to stay fairly drunk. Her narrow body sweetly dividing naked⁠ ⁠… have another drink.⁠ ⁠… I’ll kill you if you keep on fooling around her⁠ ⁠… my girl, my girl⁠ ⁠… her narrow⁠ ⁠… ’nother drink⁠ ⁠… oh, God, oh, God⁠ ⁠… sweetly dividing for another⁠ ⁠… have drink, what hell I care, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.⁠ ⁠… + 

Though “nice” people no longer spoke to him on the streets he was, after a fashion, cared for and protected by casual acquaintances and friends both black and white, as in the way of small towns particularly and of the “inferior” classes anywhere. + 

He sat glassy-eyed among fried smells, among noises, at an oilcloth-covered table. + 

“Clu⁠—hoverrrrrr blarrrr⁠—sums, clo⁠—ver blarrrr⁠—summmzzzz,” sang a nasal voice terribly, the melody ticked off at spaced intervals by a small monotonous sound, like a clock-bomb going off. Like this: + 

Clo (tick) ver (tick) rrr (tick) (tick) bl (tick) rrs (tick) sss (tick) umm (tick) zzz. + 

Beside him sat two of his new companions, quarreling, spitting, holding hands and weeping over the cracked interminability of the phonograph record. “Clo⁠—verrrr blar⁠—sums,” it repeated with saccharine passion; when it ran down they repaired to a filthy alley behind the filthier kitchen to drink of George Farr’s whisky. Then they returned and played the record through again, clutching hands while frank tears slid down their otherwise unwashed cheeks. “Cloooooooover blaaaaaarsummmssss.⁠ ⁠…” + 

Truly vice is a dull and decorous thing: no life in the world is as hard, requiring so much sheer physical and moral strength as the so-called “primrose path.” Being “good” is much less trouble. + 

“Clo⁠—ver blar⁠—sums.⁠ ⁠…” + 

… After a while his attention was called to the fact that someone had been annoying him for some time. Focusing his eyes he at last recognized the proprietor in an apron on which he must have dried his dishes for weeks. “What’n ’ell y’ want?” he asked, with feeble liquid belligerence, and the man finally explained to him that he was wanted on the telephone in a neighboring drugstore. He rose, pulling himself together. + 

“Clu⁠—hoooooooover blar⁠—sums.⁠ ⁠…” + 

After a few years he languished from a telephone mouthpiece holding himself erect, watching without interest a light globe over the prescription desk describing slow concentric circles. + 

“George?” There was something in the unknown voice speaking his name, such anguish, as to almost shock him sober. “George.” + 

“This George⁠ ⁠… hello.⁠ ⁠… + 

“George, it’s Cecily. Cecily.⁠ ⁠…” + 

Drunkenness left him like a retreating wave. He could feel his heart stop, then surge, deafening him, blinding him with his own blood. + 

“George.⁠ ⁠… Do you hear me?” (Ah, George, to have been drunk now!) (Cecily, oh, Cecily!) “Yes! Yes!” gripping the instrument as though this would keep her against escape. “Yes, Cecily? Cecily! It’s George.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Come to me, now. At once.” + 

“Yes, yes. Now?” + 

“Come, George, darling. Hurry, hurry.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Yes!” he cried again. “Hello, hello!” The line made no response. He waited but it was dead. His heart pounded and pounded, hotly; he could taste his own hot bitter blood in his throat. (Cecily, oh, Cecily!) + 

He plunged down the length of the store and while a middle-aged clerk filling a prescription poised his bottle to watch in dull amazement, George Farr tore his shirt open at the throat and thrust his whole head beneath a gushing water tap in a frenzy of activity. + 

(Cecily, oh, Cecily!) + 