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 hou