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This was the trick of John Barleycorn, laying me by the heels of my imagination and in a drug-dream dragging me to death. Oh, he was convincing. I had really experienced all of life, and it didn't amount to much. There were all the broken-down old bums and loafers I had bought drinks for. That was what remained of life. Did I want to become like them?
And as to forecasting Dag Daughtry's fate, along with Kwaque, no maddest drug-dream could have approximated it. One night Dag Daughtry sat at a table in the saloon called the Pile-drivers' Home. He was in a parlous predicament. Harder than ever had it been to secure odd jobs, and he had reached the end of his savings.
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