"No, no," he replied at once; "never stop talking or reading, I
must have something to occupy my mind all the time, however exhausted I
am."
This peculiarity of being unable to get any repose by the road of silent
abstraction must have been a source of acute suffering to him. It is
difficult to imagine a more terrible condition of mind than that in
which the constant flogging of a tired brain is the only anodyne for its
morbid irritability.
My own experience of a morning on the yacht, when Mr. Pulitzer's nerves
had been soothed by a good night's sleep, was that he walked up and down
the long promenade deck and got from me a brief summary of the news.
From time to time he pulled out his watch and, holding it toward me,
asked what o'clock it was. He was always most particular to know exactly
how long he had walked. We had arguments on many occasions as to the
exact moment at which we had commenced our promenade, and we would go
carefully over the facts--Mr. Craven had been walking with him from 9.30
to 10.05, then Dunningham had been in the library with him for fifteen
minutes, then Mr. Thwaites had walked with him for ten minutes, taking
notes for a letter to be written to the managing editor of The World;
well, that made it 10.
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