Tom's philosophy of getting through life was exactly the same as
his philosophy of getting through a rocky hillside with his steam-
shovel. When it came to argument Tom was invariably right; not
that he was over-supplied with logic, but because he possessed a
voice and the bellows to work it that could rise to the roar of
his own steam-shovel on those weeks when he chose to enter the
shovel competition, and would have utterly overthrown, drowned
out, and annihilated James Stewart Mill himself.
Tom always should have had money, for your "rough-neck" on the
Zone has decidedly the advantage over the white-collared college
graduate when the pay-car comes around. But of course being a
genuine "rough-neck" Tom was always deep in debt, except on the
three days after pay-day, when he was rolling in wealth.
Once I fancied the bulk of my troubles was over. Tom disappeared,
leaving not a trace behind--except his working-clothes tumbled on
and about his cot. Then it turned out that he was not dead, but in
Ancon hospital taking the Keeley cure; and one summer evening he
blew in again, his "cure" effected--with a bottle in his coat
pocket and two inside his vest. So the next day there was Tom
celebrating his recovery all over House 47 and when next morning
he did finally go back to his shovel there were scattered about
the room six empty quart bottles each labeled "whiskey.
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