If he had had the energy, he would have refused to consider the lie, because he wanted to forget.

He started for the village slowly and casually, increasing his pace in spite of himself as he neared the saloon.
"I thought you was on the water-wagon," was Joe's greeting.
Martin did not deign to offer excuses, but called for whiskey, filling his own glass brimming before he passed the bottle.
"Don't take all night about it," he said roughly.
The other was dawdling with the bottle, and Martin refused to wait for him, tossing the glass off in a gulp and refilling it.
"Now, I can wait for you," he said grimly; "but hurry up." Joe hurried, and they drank together.
"The work did it, eh ?" Joe queried.
Martin refused to discuss the matter.
"It's fair hell, I know," the other went on, "but I kind of hate to see you come off the wagon, Mart.

Well, here's how!" Martin drank on silently, biting out his orders and invitations and awing the barkeeper, an effeminate country youngster with watery blue eyes and hair parted in the middle.
"It's something scandalous the way they work us poor devils," Joe was remarking.

"If I didn't bowl up, I'd break loose an' burn down the shebang.

My bowlin' up is all that saves 'em, I can tell you that." But Martin made no answer.