There seems to be some sort of crisis coming which I don't understand." "There's a crisis right here, Steve, which I understand!" snapped Dr.
Grisby.

"Face it like a man! Face it like a man! You're sick--to your bones, boy--sick! sick! Fight the fight, Steve! Fight a good fight.
There's a fighting chance; on my soul of honour, there is, Steve, a fighting chance for you! Now! now, boy! Buckle up tight! Tuck up your sword-sleeve! At 'em, Steve! Give 'em hell! Oh, my boy, my boy, I know; I know!" The little man's voice broke, but he steadied it instantly with a snap of his nut-cracker jaws, and scowled on his patient and shook his little withered fist at him.
His patient lay very still in the shadow.
"I want you to go," said the doctor harshly, "before your self-control goes.

Do you understand?
I want you to go before your decision is undermined; before you begin to do devious things, sly things, cheating things, slinking things--anything and everything to get at the thing you crave.

I've given you something to fight with, and you won't take it faithfully.

I've given you free rein in tobacco and tea and coffee.