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him　in　trouble。　The　same　way　he　was　going　to　have　to　learn　how　to　cope　with　his　
drinking。　But　he　had　been　an　emotional　alcoholic　just　as　surely　as　he　had　been　a　
physical　onethe　two　of　them　were　no　doubt　tied　together　somewhere　deep　inside　
him；　where　you'd　just　as　soon　not　look。　But　it　didn't　much　matter　to　him　if　the　
root　causes　were　interrelated　or　separate；　sociological　or　psychological　or　
physiological。　He　had　had　to　deal　with　the　results：　the　spankings；　the　beatings　
from　his　old　man；　the　suspensions；　with　trying　to　explain　the　school　clothes　
torn　in　playground　brawls；　and　later　the　hangovers；　the　slowly　dissolving　glue　
of　his　marriage；　the　single　bicycle　wheel　with　its　bent　spokes　pointing　into　the　
sky；　Danny's　broken　arm。　And　George　Hatfield；　of　course。　
　　He　felt　that　he　had　unwittingly　stuck　his　hand　into　The　Great　Wasps'　Nest　of　
Life。　As　an　image　it　stank。　As　a　cameo　of　reality；　he　felt　it　was　serviceable。　
He　had　stuck　his　hand　through　some　rotted　flashing　in　high　summer　and　that　hand　
and　his　whole　arm　had　been　consumed　in　holy；　righteous　fire；　destroying　
conscious　thought；　making　the　concept　of　civilized　behavior　obsolete。　Could　you　
be　expected　to　behave　as　a　thinking　human　being　when　your　hand　was　being　impaled　
on　red…hot　darning　needles？　Could　you　be　expected　to　live　in　the　love　of　your　


　
　
nearest　and　dearest　when　the　brown；　furious　cloud　rose　out　of　the　hole　in　the　
fabric　of　things　（the　fabric　you　thought　was　so　innocent）　and　arrowed　straight　
at　you？　Could　you　be　held　responsible　for　your　own　actions　as　you　ran　crazily　
about　on　the　sloping　roof　seventy　feet　above　the　ground；　not　knowing　where　you　
were　going；　not　remembering　that　your　panicky；　stumbling　feet　could　lead　you　
crashing　and　blundering　right　over　the　rain　gutter　and　down　to　your　death　on　the　
concrete　seventy　feet　below？　Jack　didn't　think　you　could。　When　you　unwittingly　
stuck　your　hand　into　the　wasps'　nest；　you　hadn't　made　a　covenant　with　the　devil　
to　give　up　your　civilized　self　with　its　trappings　of　love　and　respect　and　honor。　
It　just　happened　to　you。　Passively；　with　no　say；　you　ceased　to　be　a　creature　of　
the　mind　and　became　a　creature　of　the　nerve　endings；　from　college…educated　man　
to　wailing　ape　in　five　easy　seconds。　
　　He　thought　about　George　Hatfield。　
　　Tall　and　shaggily　blond；　George　had　been　an　almost　insolently　beautiful　boy。　
In　his　tight　faded　jeans　and　Stovington　sweatshirt　with　the　sleeves　carelessly　
pushed　up　to　the　elbows　to　disclose　his　tanned　forearms；　he　had　reminded　Jack　of　
a　young　Robert　Redford；　and　he　doubted　that　George　had　much　trouble　scoring　—　no　
more　than　that　young　footballplaying　devil　Jack　Torrance　had　ten　years　earlier。　
He　could　say　that　he　honestly　didn't　feel　jealous　of　George；　or　envy　him　his　
good　looks；　in　fact；　he　had　almost　unconsciously　begun　to　visualize　George　as　
the　physical　incarnation　of　his　play　hero；　Gary　Benson　—　the　perfect　foil　for　the　
dark；　slumped；　and　aging　Denker；　who　grew　to　hate　Gary　so　much。　But　he；　Jack　
Torrance；　had　never　felt　that　way　about　George。　If　he　had；　he　would　have　known　
it。　He　was　quite　sure　of　that。　
　　George　had　floated　through　his　classes　at　Stovington。　A　soccer　and　baseball　
star；　his　academic　program　had　been　fairly　undemanding　and　he　had　been　content　
with　C's　and　an　occasional　B　in　history　or　botany。　He　was　a　fierce　field　
contender　but　a　lackadaisical；　amused　sort　of　student　in　the　classrooms。　Jack　was　
familiar　with　the　type；　more　from　his　own　days　as　a　high　school　and　college　
student　than　from　his　teaching　experience；　which　was　at　second　hand。　George　
Hatfield　was　a　jock。　He　could　be　a　calm；　undemanding　figure　in　the　classroom；　
but　when　the　right　set　of　petitive　stimuli　was　applied　（like　electrodes　to　
the　temples　of　Frankenstein's　monster；　Jack　thought　wryly）；　he　could　bee　a　
juggernaut。　
　　In　January；　George　had　tried　out　with　two　dozen　others　for　the　debate　team。　He　
had　been　quite　frank　with　Jack。　His　father　was　a　corporation　lawyer；　and　he　
wanted　his　son　to　follow　in　his　footsteps。　George；　who　felt　no　burning　call　to　
do　anything　else；　was　willing。　His　grades　were　not　top　end；　but　this　was；　after　
all；　only　prep　school　and　it　was　still　early　times。　If　should　be　came　to　must　
be；　his　father　could　pull　some　strings。　George's　own　athletic　ability　would　open　
still　other　doors。　But　Brian　Hatfield　thought　his　son　should　get　on　the　debate　
team。　It　was　good　practice；　and　it　was　something　that　law…school　admissions　
boards　always　looked　for。　So　George　went　out　for　debate；　and　in　late　March　Jack　
cut　him　from　the　team。　
　　The　late　winter　inter…squad　debates　had　fired　George　Hatfield's　petitive　
soul。　He　became　a　grimly　determined　debater；　prepping　his　pro　or　con　position　
fiercely。　It　didn't　matter　if　the　subject　was　legalization　of　marijuana；　
reinstating　the　death　penalty；　or　the　oil…depletion　allowance。　George　became　


　
　
conversant；　and　he　was　just　jingoist　enough　to　honestly　not　care　which　side　he　
was　on—a　rare　and　valuable　trait；　even　in　high…level　debaters；　Jack　knew。　The　
souls　of　a　true　carpetbagger　and　a　true　debater　were　not　far　removed　from　each　
other；　they　were　both　passionately　interested　in　the　main　chance。　So　far；　so　
good。　
　　But　George　Hatfield　stuttered。　
　　This　was　not　a　handicap　that　had　even　shown　up　in　the　classroom；　where　George　
was　always　cool　and　collected　（whether　he　had　done　his　homework　or　not）；　and　
certainly　not　on　the　Stovington　playing　fields；　where　talk　was　not　a　virtue　and　
they　sometimes　even　threw　you　out　of　the　game　for　too　much　discussion。　
　　When　George　got　tightly　wound　up　in　a　debate；　the　stutter　would　e　out。　The　
more　eager　he　became；　the　worse　it　was。　And　when　he　felt　he　had　an　opponent　dead　
in　his　sights；　an　intellectual　sort　of　buck　fever　seemed　to　take　place　between　
his　speech　centers　and　his　mouth　and　he　would　freeze　solid　while　the　clock　ran　
out。　It　was　painful　to　watch。　
　　〃S…S…So　I　th…th…think　we　have　to　say　that　the　fuh…fuh…facts　in　the　c…case　Mr。　
D…D…D…Dorsky　cites　are　ren…ren…rendered　obsolete　by　the　ruh…recent　duh…duh…　
decision　handed　down　inin…in　。。。　〃　
　　The　buzzer　would　go　off　and　George　would　whirl　around　to　stare　furiously　at　
Jack；　who　sat　beside　it。　George's　face　at　those　moments　would　be　flushed；　his　
notes　crumpled　spasmodically　in　one　hand。　
　　Jack　had　held　on　to　George　long　after　he　had　cut　most　of　the　obvious　flat　
tires；　hoping　George　would　work　out。　He　remembered　one　late　afternoon　about　a　
week　before　he　had　reluctantly　dropped　the　ax。　George　had　stayed　after　the　
others　had　filed　out；　and　then　had　confronted　Jack　angrily。　
　　〃You　s…set　the　timer　ahead。〃　
　　Jack　looked　up　from　the　papers　he　was　putting　back　into　his　briefcase。　
　　〃George；　what　are　you　talking　about？〃　
　　〃I　d…didn't　get　my　whole　five　mih…minutes。　You　set　it　ahead。　I　was　wuh…　
watching　the　clock。〃　
　　〃The　clock　and　the　timer　may　keep　slightly　different　times；　George；　but　I　
never　touched　the　dial　on　the　damned　thing。　Scout's　honor。〃　
　　〃Yuh…yuh…you　did！〃　
　　The　belligerent；　I'm…sticking…up…for…my…rights　way　George　was　looking　at　him　
had　sparked　Jack's　own　temper。　He　had　been　off　the　sauce　for　two　months；　two　months　too　long；　
and　he　was　ragged。　He　made　one　last　effort　to　hold　himself　in。　〃I　assure　you　I　did　not；　George。　It's　
your　stutter。　Do　you　have　any　idea　what　causes　it？　You　don't　stutter　in　class。〃　
　　〃I　duh…duh…don't　s…s…st…st…stutterl〃　
　　〃Lower　your　voice。〃　
　　〃You　w…want　to　g…get　me！　You　duh…don't　w…want　me　on　your　g…g…goddam　team！〃　
　　〃Lower　your　voice；　I　said。　Let's　discuss　this　rationally。〃　
　　〃F…fuh…fuck　th…that！〃　
　　〃George；　if　you　control　your　stutter；　I'd　be　glad　to　have　you。　You're　well　
prepped　for　every　practice　and　you're　good　at　the　background　stuff；　which　means　
you're　rarely　surprised。　But　all　that　doesn't　mean　much　if　you　can't　control　
that—〃　
　　〃I've　neh…neh…never　stuttered！〃　he　cried　out。　〃It's　yuh…you！　I…i…if　suh…　
someone　else　had　the　d…d…deb…debate　t…team；　I　could　—　〃　


　
　
　　Jack's　temper　slipped　another　notch。　
　　〃George；　you're　never　going　to　make　much　of　a　lawyer；　corporation　or　
otherwise；　if　you　can't　control　that。　Law　isn't　like　soccer。　Two　hours　of　
practice　every　night　won't　cut　it。　What　are　you　going　to　do；　stand　up　in　front　
of　a　board　meeting　and　say；　‘Nuh…nuh…now；　g…gentlemen；　about　this　t…ttort'？〃　
　　He　suddenly　flushed；　not　with　anger　but　with　shame　at　his　own　cruelty。　This　
was　not　a　man　in　front　of　him　but　a　seventeen…year…old　boy　who　was　facing　the　
first　major　defeat　of　his　life；　and　maybe　asking　in　the　only　way　he　could　for　
Jack　to　help　him　find　a　way　to　cope　with　it。　
　　George　gave　him　a　final；　furious　glance；　his　lips　twisting　and　bucking　as　the　
words　bottled　up　behind　them　struggled　to　find　their　way　out。　
　　〃Yuh…yuh…you　s…s…set　it　ahead！　You　huh…hate　me　b…because　you　nuh…nuh…nuh…know　
。。。　you　know　。。。　nuh…nuh　—　〃　
　　With　an　articulate　cry　he　had　rushed　out　of　the　classroom；　slamming　the　door　
hard　enough　to　make　the　wire…reinforced　glass　rattle　in　its　frame。　Jack　had　
stood　there；　feeling；　rather　than　hearing；　the　echo　of　George's　Adidas　in　the　
empty　hall。　Still　in　the　grip　of　his　temper　and　his　shame　at　mocking　George's　
stutter；　his　first　thought　had　been　a　sick　sort　of　exultation：　For　the　first　
time　in　his　life　George　Hatfield　had　wanted　something　he　could　not　have。　For　the　
first　time　there　was　something　wrong　that　all　of　Daddy's　money　could　not　fix。　
You　couldn't　bribe　a　speech　center。　You　couldn't　offer　a　tongue　an　extra　fifty　a　
week　and　a　bonus　at　Christmas　if　it　would　agree　to　stop　flapping　like　a　record　
needle　in　a　defective　groove。　Then　the　exultation　was　simply　buried　in　shame；　
and　he　felt　the　way　he　had　after　he　had　broken　Danny's　arm。　
　　Dear　God；　I　am　not　a　son　of　a　bitch。　Please。　
　　That　sick　happiness　at　George's　retreat　was　more　typical　of　Denker　in　the　play　
than　of　Jack　Torrance　the　playwright。　
　　You　hate　me　because　you　know　。。。　
　　Because　he　knew　what？　
　　What　could　he　possibly　know　about　George　Hatfield　that　would　make　him　hate　
him？　That　his　whole　future　lay　ahead　of　him？　That　he　looked　a　little　bit　like　
Robert　Redford　and　all　conversation　among　the　girls　stopped　when　he　did　a　double　
gainer　from　the　pool　diving　board？　That　he　played　soccer　and　baseball　with　a　
natural；　unlearned　grace？　
　　Ridiculous。　Absolutely　absurd。　He　envied　George　Hatfield　nothing。　If　the　truth　
was　known；　he　felt　worse　about　George's　unfortunate　stutter　than　George　himself；　
because　George　really　would　have　made　an　excellent　debater。　And　if　Jack　had　set　
the　timer　ahead　—　and　of　course　he　hadn't　—　it　would　have　been　because　both　he　and　
the　other　members　of　the　squad　were　embarrassed　for　George's　struggle；　they　had　
agonized　over　it　the　way　you　agonize　when　the　Class　Night　speaker　forgets　some　
of　his　lines。　If　he　had　set　the　timer　ahead；　it　would　have　been　just　to　。。。　to　
put　George　out　of　his　misery。　
　　But　he　hadn't　set　the　timer　ahead。　He　was　quite　sure　of　it。　
　　A　week　later　he　had　cut　him；　and　that　time　he　had　kept　his　temper。　The　shouts　
and　the　threats　had　all　been　on　George's　side。　A　week　after　that　he　had　gone　out　
to　the　parking　lot　halfway　through　practice　to　get　a　pile　of　sourcebooks　that　he　
had　left　in　the　trunk　of　the　VW　and　there　had　been　George；　down　on　one　knee　with　
his　long　blond　hair　swinging　in　his　face；　a　hunting　knife　in　one　hand。　He　was　


　
　
sawing　through　the　VW's　right　front　tire。　The　back　tires　were　already　shredded；　
and　the　bug　sat　on　the　flats　like　a　small；　tired　dog。　
　　Jack　had　seen　red；　and　remembered　very　little　of　the　encounter　that　followed。　
He　remembered　a　thick　growl　that　seemed　to　issue　from　his　own　throat：　〃All　
right；　George。　If　that's　how　you　want　it；　just　e　here　and　take　your　
medicine。〃　
　　He　remembered　George　looking　up；　startled　and　fearful。　He　had　said：　〃Mr。　
Torrance　—　〃　as　if　to　explain　how　all　this　was　just　a　mistake；　the　tires　had　been　
flat　when　he　got　there　and　he　was　just　cleaning　dirt　out　of　the　front　treads　
with　the　tip　of　this　gutting　knife　he　just　happened　to　have　with　him　and　—　　
　　Jack　had　waded　in；　his　fists　held　up　in　front　of　him；　and　it　seemed　that　he　
had　been　grinning。　But　he　wasn't　sure　of　th