And yet, as he looked at him, Jud Carpenter took it all in—the weakness that was still there, the terrible, restless thirst which now made him nervous, irritable, and turned his soul into a very tumult of dissatisfaction.
Carpenter, even as he talked to him, could see the fight which was going on; and now and then, in spite of it and his determination, he saw that the reformed drunkard was looking wistfully toward the bar-room of Billy Buch.
And so, as Jud talked to Edward Conway about the house, he led him along toward the bar-room. All the time he was complimenting him on his improved health, and telling how, with help from the mill, he would soon be on his feet again.
At the bar door he halted:
“Let us set down here an' res', Majah, sah, it's a good place on this little porch. Have somethin'? Billy's got a mighty fine bran' of old Tennessee whiskey in there.”
Jud watched him as he spoke and saw the fire of expectancy burn in his despairing eyes.
“No—no—Carpenter—no—I am obliged to you—but I have sworn never to touch another drop of it. I'll just rest here with you.” He threw up his head and Jud Carpenter saw how eagerly he inhaled the odor which came out of the door. He saw the quivering lips, the tense straining of the throat, the wavering eyes which told how sorely he was tempted.
It was cool, but the sweat stood in drops on Edward Conway's temple. He gulped, but swallowed only a dry lump, which immediately sprang back into his throat again and burned as a ball of fire.
“No—no—Carpenter,” he kept saying in a dazed, abstracted way—“no—no—not any more for me. I've promised—I've promised.”
And yet even while saying it his eyes were saying: “For God's sake—bring it to me—quick—quick.”