And on Monday morning, weary, he began the new week's work, but he had kept sober.
A fifth week passed, and a sixth, during which he lived and toiled as a machine, with just a spark of something more in him, just a glimmering bit of soul, that compelled him, at each week-end, to scorch off the hundred and forty miles.

But this was not rest.

It was super-machinelike, and it helped to crush out the glimmering bit of soul that was all that was left him from former life.

At the end of the seventh week, without intending it, too weak to resist, he drifted down to the village with Joe and drowned life and found life until Monday morning.
Again, at the week-ends, he ground out the one hundred and forty miles, obliterating the numbness of too great exertion by the numbness of still greater exertion.

At the end of three months he went down a third time to the village with Joe.