Drunk indeed he was; not hilariously, as one who celebrated his good fortune, but sullenly, tragically, hideously drunk.
Old Belllounds leaped off the porch.

His gray hair stood up like the mane of a lion.

Like a giant's were his strides.

With a lunge he met his reeling son, swinging a huge fist into the sodden red face.

Limply Jack fell to the ground.
"Lay there, you damned prodigal!" he roared, terrible in his rage.