advertising strange mixtures with ice cream as their basis, the busy
men behind the counter, the half-cynical, half-pitying eyes of the
girl in the cage where you bought the soda checks. She had seen so
many happy, healthy boys through that little hole in the wire netting,
so many thoughtless boys all eager for their first soda, clamoring to
set their foot on the primrose path that leads to destruction.

It was an apple marshmallow sundae, I recollect. I dug my spoon into
it with an assumption of gaiety which I was far from feeling. The
first mouthful almost nauseated me. It was like cold hair-oil. But I
stuck to it. I could not break down now. I could not bear to forfeit
the newly-won esteem of my comrades. They were gulping their sundaes
down with the speed and enjoyment of old hands. I set my teeth, and
persevered, and by degrees a strange exhilaration began to steal over
me. I felt that I had burnt my boats and bridges; that I had crossed
the Rubicon. I was reckless. I ordered another round. I was the life
and soul of that party.

The next morning brought remorse. I did not feel well. I had pains,
physical and mental. But I could not go back now. I was too weak to
dispense with my popularity. I was only a boy, and on the previous
evening the captain of the Checkers Club, to whom I looked up with an
almost worshipping reverence, had slapped me on the back and told me
that I was a corker. I felt that nothing could be excessive payment
for such an honor. That night I gave a party at which orange phosphate
flowed like water. It was the turning point.

I had got the habit!

I will pass briefly over the next few years. I continued to sink