“Oh, a perfectly respectable little party,” returned Vickers, “not a bit like my last. At least it will begin respectably. It will end as my guests please. Will you come early or late, Doctor?”
“Early,” said the doctor; “it is always permitted to go home. No, wait a moment,” he added, as he saw Vickers preparing to go. “I want to ask you something. Did you ever know a big American who lived on the Pacific side—a man named Lee? Not a relation of yours, was he?”
“Certainly he is not,” retorted Vickers. “I have not many causes for gratitude, but that is one. I met him only once, and then he borrowed fifteen pesos from me on the strength of a hypothetical likeness between us.”
“There is a certain resemblance,” observed the doctor.
“Is there? I never saw it. What has he been doing? Getting into trouble?”
“Getting out of it. He died at my house this morning.”
“What of? Fever?”
“No, drink. I found him two days ago in his hut on the Pacific slope, and brought him here. One can not drink safely in this climate. Nature is beneficent, she gives much,” the doctor waved his hand, “but she also exacts much. One can not drink here, and live.”
“Oh, nonsense, Doctor,” said Vickers, “look at me. I’m as sound as a dollar.”
“What I want of you,” said the other, “is to write to his family. My English is not sufficient to make him out a hero, and,” he added, with a smile, “when we write home they are always heroes. Will you undertake it?”