The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. At this terrible juncture, Jack maintained his composure,—a smile played upon his face before the cap was drawn over it,—and the last words he uttered were, "My poor mother! I shall soon join her!" The rope was then adjusted, and the cart began to move. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. His glances were hard to disguise as he scanned her periodically during class. "This will be very comfortable.
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