From Wealth to Poverty; Or, the Tricks of the Traffic. A Story of the Drink Curse — John Shaqi
From Wealth to Poverty; Or, the Tricks of the Traffic. A Story of the Drink CursePotter, Austin
General
From Wealth to Poverty; Or, the Tricks of the Traffic. A Story of the Drink Curse
Potter, Austin
Temperance -- Fiction
He had no sooner secured a room than he sat down to write a note
to Ruth; for, demoralized as he was, he did not forget his
promise. He found, however, that his head was in a perfect whirl,
and that his hand was so unsteady as to make the accomplishment of
the task almost an impossibility; but he managed, in an almost
illegible scrawl, to inform her of his safe arrival. He asked her
to excuse the brevity of his communication, as he was still
suffering from the effects of his stormy voyage across the lake,
which had shattered, for the time being, his nervous system. He
ended by sending his love to her and the children, and asking her
to write immediately, as he was anxious to hear from his darlings
at home.
The next two weeks were passed in continuous drunkenness. He would
awaken each morning feeling, as those who have passed through the
ordeal say has to be experienced in order to have the faintest
idea of what it is; his lips and throat were as dry as withered
leaves; his brain seemed on fire, and his bloodshot eyes, gleaming
out from his pale, emaciated face, appeared as though they might
have belonged to one of Canada's dark-visaged aborigines in the
savage state rather than to their present intellectual, though
dissipated, owner.
In his sober moments he would think of his wife and children, and
there was in the thought a mingling of shame and agony which
almost drove him wild; then he would remember the purport of his
journey, for which he had not yet made the slightest endeavor; and
when, on examination, he found his stock of money was almost gone,
and that he would soon have either to secure a situation or be a
penniless vagrant in a strange land, it added to his despair.
"I say, Mr. Ashton," said the polite landlord of the hotel one
morning, as he was about to take his first drink, "did you not
give me to understand you were looking for a situation in some dry
goods or clothing establishment?"
"Yes, Mr. Rumsey, that is what I am after; but God knows how I
will succeed; for I have done nothing, nor am I, as I am now, in a
fit state to do anything; for who would engage such a wretch as I
am?"
Rumsey pitied him; for he was a man who was too good for the
business in which he was engaged.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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