I was no longer a clever little fellow, I was just a mere boy listening to a man.
But even then—in comparison with what my life had been for months and months, this was delicious, this was heaven.
Besides, as I gradually began to realize, all this was forbidden, absolutely forbidden,
everything from sitting in a public house, down to the subject of our conversation.
In any case, I thought I was showing spirit; I was in revolt.
I can recollect that night with the greatest clearness.
We both of us wended our way home at a late hour under the dimly burning gas lamps through the cool, damp night,
and for the first time in my life I was drunk. It was not agreeable, it was in the highest degree unpleasant,
but there was a sort of charm about it, a sweetness—it smacked of orgy and revolt, of spirit and life.
Beck bravely took me in hand, and although he grumbled at me as being a bloody novice,
he half carried, half dragged me home, where, by good fortune,
he was able to smuggle us both through a window which stood open on the ground floor.
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