Diary of a Drug Fiend

A Knight Out 7 So, when I turned into the café, I think the real reason was that I hoped to find somebody there, and talk the night out. People think that talking is a sign of thinking. It isn’t, for the most part; on the con- trary, it’s a mechanical dodge of the body to relieve oneself of the strain of thinking, just as exercising the muscles helps the body to become temporarily un- conscious of its weight, its pain, its weariness, and the foreknowledge of its doom. You see what gloomy thoughts a fellow can have, even when he’s Fortune’s pet. It’s a disease of civilisa- tion. We're in an intermediate stage between the stupor of the peasant and—something that is not yet properly developed. I went into the café and sat down at one of the marble tables. I had a momentary thrill of joy—it reminded me of France so much—of all those days of ferocious gambling with Death. I couldn't see a soul I knew. But at least I knew by sight the two men at the next table. Every one knew that gray ferocious wolf—a man built in every line for battle, and yet with a forehead which lifted him clean out of the turmoil. The conflicting elements in his nature had played the devil with him. Jack Fordham was his name. At sixty years of age he was still the most savage and implacable of publicists. “ Red in tooth and claw,” as Tennyson said. Yet the man had found time to write great literature ; and his rough and tumble with the world had not degraded his thought or spoilt his style. Sitting next him was a weak, good-natured, working journalist named Vernon Gibbs. He wrote practically the whole of a weekly paper—had done, year after year with the versatility of a practised pen and the mechanical perseverance of an instrument which has been worn by practice into perfect easi- ness. Yet the man had a mind for all that. Some instinct told him that he had been meant for better things. D.D.F. B