Oh, you needn't speak low," she added, as John thanked the child softly; "he won't hear nothing before to-morrow." The lumberman lay in the sodden sleep with which he ended a spree.

He had rolled up his coat for a pillow, and had thrown one arm across his purple, bloated face.

Only the weak, helpless, open mouth could be seen.
His muscular hands were relaxed, and the whole prostrate figure was pathetic in its unconsciousness of will and grotesque unhumanness.

Fate had been too strong for Tom Davis.

His birth and all the circumstances of his useless life had brought him with resistless certainty to this level, and his progress in the future could only be an ever-hastening plunge downward.
But the preacher did not consider fate when he turned and looked at the drunken man.