Jack London

When God Laughs Jack London

Carquinez had relaxed finally. He stole a glance at the rattling windows, looked upwardat the beamed roof, and listened for a moment to the savage roar of the south-easter as itcaught the bungalow in its bellowing jaws. Then he held his glass between him and the fireand laughed for joy through the golden wine."It is beautiful," he said. "It is sweetly sweet. It is a woman's wine, and it was made forgray-robed saints to drink.""We grow it on our own warm hills," I said, with pardonable California pride. "You rodeup yesterday through the vines from which it was made."It was worth while to get Carquinez to loosen up. Nor was he ever really himself until hefelt the mellow warmth of the vine singing in his blood. He was an artist, it is true, alwaysan artist; but somehow, sober, the high pitch and lilt went out of his thought-processes andhe was prone to be as deadly dull as a British Sunday-not dull as other men are dull, butdull when measured by the sprightly wight that Monte Carquinez was when he was reallyhimself