"That's what my girl says, Prince. But I don't feel at all like marrying: I'm not that sort."
"Not—that—sort!"
It seemed to Masters as if all the blood in his body suddenly turning scalding hot and black-coloured; filled his veins to bursting point. He sat quite still, motionless; fearful that if he moved, loosened for one instant his hold on himself, his feelings would be too much for him.
His trip, his care for Dick then, was so much labour thrown away.... He must keep that feeling, that desire to rush at the boy's throat and choke his worthless life out, keep it down. Nothing would be gained by loss of temper. It is the cool hammer which fashions the red-hot iron; he knew that, yet did not dare to look at his companion.
His stylographic pen was not of the best make; perhaps resented being held down so. The ink ran from it and made a blot on the paper. Although conscious of its existence he allowed the size of the blot to increase; still he made no movement.... At last he spoke; spoke so huskily that Dick looked up from his sketch. The moment he did so, he cried:
"Prince! Good God, old chap, what's the matter? Prince! Prince! You are ill!"
"I am quite well. Sit down; I am all right I tell you. I want to talk to you."
"Rot!"
The boy scrambled to his feet impatiently, looking in amazement at the white, drawn expression on his companion's face; continued:
"You're ill. Think I am blind? Come to the cabin and lie down."