He wished to be such
another. After having two or three drinks out of the bottle, he admired his
father, who in the Pennsylvania town had borne the reputation of being a
liar and a rascal. After his mother's death his father had managed to marry
a widow who owned a farm. "The old man was a slick one," he said aloud,
tipping up the bottle and taking another long drink. "If I had stayed at
home until I got more understanding, the old man and I together might have
done something." He finished the bottle and went away to sleep on the hay,
or if it were winter, threw himself into one of the bunks in the bunk
house. He dreamed of becoming one who went through life beating people out
of money, living by his wits, getting the best of every one.
Until the night of Clara's wedding Jim had never tasted wine, and as it did
not bring on a desire for sleep, he thought himself unaffected. "It's like
sweetened water," he said, going into the darkness of the barnyard and
emptying another half bottle down his throat. "The stuff has no kick.
Drinking it is like drinking sweet cider."
Jim got into a frolicsome mood and went through the crowded kitchen and
into the dining room where the guests were assembled. At the moment the
rather riotous laughter and story telling had ceased and everything was
quiet. He was worried. "Things aren't going well. Clara's party is becoming
a frost," he thought resentfully.
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