"That man is giving his whole mind to thinking how he can get whisky. He will lie, cheat, steal, do anything to get it."
"How can he? Neither Billy nor his old mother will help him. He will get well, Doctor, I suppose?"
"Yes, I told him he would. More's the pity. He is a permanent nuisance, up to any wickedness, a hopelessly ruined wild beast."
"Perhaps," said Rivers; "perhaps. Who can be sure of that?" He despaired of no one.
The sadly experienced doctor shook his head. "He will live to do much mischief. The good die young; you may be sure the wicked do not. In some ways the man's case has its droll side. Queer case! in some ways interesting."
"How is it interesting?" said Rivers.
"Oh, what he saw—his delusions when he was at his worst."
"What did he see?"
"Oh, bugs—snakes—the common symptoms, and at last the 'Wilmot Proviso.' Imagine it. He knew no more of that than of the physiology of the man in the moon. He described it as a 'plucked chicken.'"
"I suppose that was a wild contribution from the endless political talk of the town."