Instead of a hot-bread—­I have the greatest hot-bread artist in the world at my house, bar none!—­waffle, sausage, kidney-stew, lamb-chop, fried-egg and so forth sort of breakfast, I cut that meal down to some fruit, a couple of pieces of dry, hard toast, two boiled eggs and coffee.  I cut out the luncheon altogether.  No more luncheon for me!  I cut down my dinners to about forty per cent of what I had been eating.  I diminished the quantity, but not the variety.  I ate everything that came along, but I didn’t eat so much or half so much.  Instead of two slices of roast beef, for example, I ate only one small slice.  Instead of two baked or browned potatoes, I ate only half of one.  Instead of three or four slices of bread, I ate only one.  I didn’t deprive myself of a single thing I liked, but I cut the quantity away down.  And I quit drinking alcohol absolutely.

What happened?  This is what happened:  Eating food is just as much a habit as breathing or any other physical function.  I had got myself into the habit of eating large quantities of food.  Also, I had accustomed my system to certain amounts of alcohol.  I was organized on that basis—­fatly and flabbily organized, to be sure, but organized just the same.  Now, then, when I arbitrarily cut down the amount of food and drink for which my system was organized that entire system rose up in active revolt and yelled for what it had been accustomed to get.  There wasn’t a minute for more than three months when I wasn’t hungry, actually hungry for food; when the sight of food did not excite me and when I did not have a physical longing and appetite for food; when my stomach did not seem to demand it and my palate howl for it.  It was different with the drinking.  I got over that desire rather promptly, but with a struggle, at that; but the food-yearn was there for weeks and weeks, and it was a fight—­a bitter, bitter fight!

When I went to the table and saw the good things on it, and knew I intended only to eat small portions of them, especially of my favorite desserts and my beloved hot-bread, I simply had to grip the sides of my chair and use all the will-power I had to keep from reaching out and grabbing something and stuffing it into my mouth!  My friends used to think it was all a joke.  It was farther from being a joke than anything you ever heard about.  It was a tragedy—­a grim, relentless tragedy!  It was acute physical suffering.  My body cried out for that same amount of food I had been giving it all those years.  I wanted to give it that same amount.  I have had to leave the table time and time again to get hold of myself and go back to the smaller portions I had allotted to myself.  I liked to eat, you know.

Nothing much happened for a few weeks, though the waistband of my trousers grew looser.  Then a lot of excess baggage seemed to drop away all at once.  I weighed myself and found I had taken off twenty-five pounds.  Friends told me to quit—­that I should overdo it.  I laughed at them.  I knew I was still twenty-five pounds too heavy and I was just getting into my stride.  It is strange how men, and especially fat men, who haven’t the nerve to reduce themselves, think a man must be sick if he takes off flesh.  I knew I wasn’t sick.  Indeed, I was just beginning to get well.