“But what can I do here all day Sunday?” Martin asked.

“Rest.  You don’t know how tired you are.  Why, I’m that tired Sunday I can’t even read the papers.  I was sick once—­typhoid.  In the hospital two months an’ a half.  Didn’t do a tap of work all that time.  It was beautiful.”

“It was beautiful,” he repeated dreamily, a minute later.

Martin took a bath, after which he found that the head laundryman had disappeared.  Most likely he had gone for a glass of beer Martin decided, but the half-mile walk down to the village to find out seemed a long journey to him.  He lay on his bed with his shoes off, trying to make up his mind.  He did not reach out for a book.  He was too tired to feel sleepy, and he lay, scarcely thinking, in a semi-stupor of weariness, until it was time for supper.  Joe did not appear for that function, and when Martin heard the gardener remark that most likely he was ripping the slats off the bar, Martin understood.  He went to bed immediately afterward, and in the morning decided that he was greatly rested.  Joe being still absent, Martin procured a Sunday paper and lay down in a shady nook under the trees.  The morning passed, he knew not how.  He did not sleep, nobody disturbed him, and he did not finish the paper.  He came back to it in the afternoon, after dinner, and fell asleep over it.

So passed Sunday, and Monday morning he was hard at work, sorting clothes, while Joe, a towel bound tightly around his head, with groans and blasphemies, was running the washer and mixing soft-soap.

“I simply can’t help it,” he explained.  “I got to drink when Saturday night comes around.”

Another week passed, a great battle that continued under the electric lights each night and that culminated on Saturday afternoon at three o’clock, when Joe tasted his moment of wilted triumph and then drifted down to the village to forget.  Martin’s Sunday was the same as before.  He slept in the shade of the trees, toiled aimlessly through the newspaper, and spent long hours lying on his back, doing nothing, thinking nothing.  He was too dazed to think, though he was aware that he did not like himself.  He was self-repelled, as though he had undergone some degradation or was intrinsically foul.  All that was god-like in him was blotted out.  The spur of ambition was blunted; he had no vitality with which to feel the prod of it.  He was dead.  His soul seemed dead.  He was a beast, a work-beast.  He saw no beauty in the sunshine sifting down through the green leaves, nor did the azure vault of the sky whisper as of old and hint of cosmic vastness and secrets trembling to disclosure.  Life was intolerably dull and stupid, and its taste was bad in his mouth.  A black screen was drawn across his mirror of inner vision, and fancy lay in a darkened sick-room where entered no ray of light.  He envied Joe, down in the village, rampant, tearing the slats off the bar, his brain gnawing with maggots, exulting in maudlin ways over maudlin things, fantastically and gloriously drunk and forgetful of Monday morning and the week of deadening toil to come.