"Yes, it's past one o'clock."
"Well, what then? You've no wife to regulate your hours."
"No, but I have work to regulate them. A journalist is a slave to the public."
"Stay half an hour longer."
"What's the good?"
"I can't sleep, and it's horrible to go to bed and lie awake. Besides, I believe I've a touch of D.T."
"Nonsense. You who boast that your nerves are steel, and that no whisky can bowl you over."
"That's true, and yet—look here, Winfield, you are not one of these whining sentimentalists, and one can speak to you plainly. I was never drunk in my life; that is, I was never in a condition when I couldn't walk straight, and when I couldn't express my thoughts clearly. Nevertheless, it tells, my son, it tells. I don't get excited, and I don't get maudlin. Perhaps it would be better for me if I did."
"Why?"
"Then I should be afraid. As it is, I am afraid of nothing. And yet, I tell you, I have a bad time when I am alone in the dark. It's hell, man—it's hell!"