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McCarthy, a gambler by instinct, gives no sign of doubt. He still lives like a burning roman candle; in times of stress or excitement he goes without sleep or food, drinks steadily for days on end without a tremor of unsteadiness. Even in normal period he often awakens, apparently fresh, after only a few hours of sleep, tosses off vodka and tomato juice (a combination which he believes does not taint the breath), reads leases or studies maps and impatiently awaits the new dawn.
Though he cannot brook restraint or criticism and has quarreled with most close business associates, he cannot bear to be alone; he keeps himself surrounded by a circle of yes-men. They treat him with anxious concern, like veterinarians in a lion's cage. But McCarthy needs them—to mix him a drink, answer the telephone, nod when he speaks, to leap into a plane with him if he wants to go to New York, to Hollywood.
McCarthy's zest for chance, life, personal combat and the power of wealth seems undiminished. He still likes to rub his hands in thick, crude oil and mutter:
"This is oil." He still has grandiose ideas. Last month he tried to buy a professional football club for Houston. Last week he paid a princely $15,400 for an 890-lb. prize Hereford.
Where was Glenn McCarthy going? Houstonians say: "He's going to kill himself, go bankrupt, or get to be the richest man on earth. You figure out which."
† To encourage oil discoveries, the Government, since 1926, has allowed oilmen to write off up to 27½% of their gross income for "depletion," a kindly gesture which permits them not only to make huge fortunes but keep them. Now that there is plenty of oil, President Truman has asked Congress to plug the income-tax loophole —but powerful Texans like Speaker Sam Rayburn oppose any change in the law.