Martin Eden Ch 18 p175

Paul Stought

May 30

crush out the glimmering bit of soul that was all that was left him from former life. At the end of the seventh week, without intending it, too weak to resist, he drifted down to the village with Joe and drowned life and found life until Monday morning.	krush out dhu glimuring bit uv soel dhat wuz aul dhat wuz left him frum faurmur lief. At dhy end uv dhu sevunth wyk, without intending it, too wyk too rizist, hy driftud doun too dhu vilij with Joe and dround lief and found lief until Mundae maurning.
Again, at the week-ends, he ground out the one hundred and forty miles, obliterating the numbness of too great exertion by the numbness of still greater exertion. At the end of three months he went down a third time to the village with Joe. He forgot, and lived again, and, living, he saw, in clear illumination, the beast he was making of himself—not by the drink, but by the work. The drink was an effect, not a cause. It followed inevitably upon the work, as the night follows upon the day. Not by becoming a toil-beast could he win to the heights, was the message the whiskey whispered to him, and he nodded approbation. The whiskey was wise. It told secrets on itself.	Ugen, at dhu wyk-endz, hy ground out dhu wun hundrud and faurty mielz, ublituraeting dhu numnus uv too graet egzurshun bie dhu numnus uv stil graetur egzurshun. At dhy end uv thry munths hy went doun u thurd tiem too dhu vilij with Joe. Hy faurgot, and livd ugen, and, living, hy sau, in klir iloomunaeshun, dhu byst hy wuz maeking uv himself—not bie dhu dringk, but bie dhu wurk. Dhu dringk wuz an ifekt, not u kauz. It foloed inevutubly upon dhu wurk, az dhu niet foloez upon dhu dae. Not bie bikuming u toil-byst kwd hy win too dhu hiets, wuz dhu mesij dhu whisky whispurd too him, and hy nodud aprubaeshun. Dhu whisky wuz wiez. It toeld sykruts on itself.
He called for paper and pencil, and for drinks all around, and while they drank his very good health, he clung to the bar and scribbled.	Hy kauld faur paepur and pensul, and faur dringks aul uround, and whiel dhae drangk hiz very gwd helth, hy klung too dhu bor and skribuld.
"A telegram, Joe," he said. "Read it."	"U telugram, Joe," hy sed. "Ryd it."
Joe read it with a drunken, quizzical leer. But what he read seemed to sober him. He looked at the other reproachfully, tears oozing into his eyes and down his cheeks.	Joe red it with u drungkun, kwizikul lir. But whot hy red symd too soebur him. Hy lwkd at dhy udhur riproechfuly, tirz oozing intoo hiz iez and doun hiz chyks.
"You ain't goin' back on me, Mart?" he queried hopelessly.	"Ue aent go.in' bak on my, Mort?" hy kweryd hoeplusly.
Martin nodded, and called one of the loungers to him to take the message to the telegraph office.	Mortun nodud, and kauld wun uv dhu lounjurz too him too taek dhu mesij too dhu telugraf ofus.
"Hold on," Joe muttered thickly. "Lemme think."	"Hoeld on," Joe muturd thikly. "Lemy thingk."
He held on to the bar, his legs wobbling under him,	Hy held on too dhu bor, hiz legz wobuling undur him,
175a	175a
Martin Eden Martin Eden Intro