All those Rabelaisan folk-things I had lost while hopping the freight, came surging back, each not in fragments, but entire. Drunk, I did then what my brain since, intoxicated or sober, cannot do ... I rendered them all, one after the other, just as I had copied them down....
"And more! Gregory, more!" the boys kept shouting.
I sat down and began to cry because I had lost the script. It had all gone out of my head again as quickly as it had come, so that I could not even repeat one they'd asked for.
"Hell, he's got a crying drunk the first thing!"
"Cheer up, old scout ... here's another cupful."
"No ... I don't want any more ... I'm never going to drink again."
And I knocked the cup out of Travers' hand with a violent drunken sweep of negation.
"No use getting huffy about it," someone put in belligerently.
"If anybody wants to fight," it was Black Jim, huge and menacing and morose, advancing....