He looks like he had fought his way up out of it, somehow--his forehead was sweaty, and they was one intoxicated lock of hair sticking to it; but that was the only un-sober-looking thing about him.

I guess his legs would of been unsteady if he had of tried to walk, but his intellects was uncomfortable and sober.
He is still keeping up that same old argument with himself, or with the picture.
"It isn't any use," I hearn him say, looking at the picture.
Then he listened like he hearn it answering him.

"Yes, you always say just that--just that," he says.

"And I don't know why I keep on listening to you." The way he talked, and harkened fur an answer, when they was nothing there to answer, give me the creeps.
"You don't help me," he goes on, "you don't help me at all.

You only make it harder.