Those were dark hours for Dave. He discharged his duties
automatically, taking no interest whatever in his work; his nights
he spent in morose meditation. Unable to sleep, he tramped the hot
streets in an effort to fight off his growing nervousness. He
became irritable, despondent; his eyes took on the look of an
invalid's; his face aged and grayed. Physically, too, he grew very
tired, for no burden is heavier to bear than that of doubt and
indecision.
One afternoon Ellsworth entered his office to find Dave waiting
for him. The young man began in a shaky, husky voice:
"I can't stand it, Judge. I'm going to pieces, fast."
"You do look bad."
"Yes. I don't sleep. I'm so irritable I can't get along up at the
courthouse. I'm licked. The worst of it is, I don't know whether
it's all imagination, or whether you really stirred up that
devilish sleeping thing in me. Anyhow, something has got me. All I
can do is study and analyze and watch and imagine--I sit all night
thinking--thinking, until everything gets queer and distorted. If
I were sane before, you've about unbalanced me with your damnable
suggestions."
"A few nights of sleep will make you feel better," Ellsworth said,
gravely.
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