“Is he mad, is he deranged?” muttered O'Shea, half aloud.
“No, sir. We Western men are little liable to insanity; our lives are too much abroad and open-air lives for that. It's your thoughtful, reflective, deep men, as wears a rut in their mind with thinkin'; them 's the fellows goes mad.”
O'Shea's stare of astonishment at this speech scarcely seemed to convey a concurrence in the assertion, and he made a step towards the door.
“If you're a-goin', I've nothing more to say, sir,” said Quackinboss.
“I cannot see what there is to detain me here!” said the other, sternly.
“There ain't much, that's a fact,” was the cool reply. “There's nothing remarkable in them bottles; it's new brandy and British gin; and as for myself, sir, I can only say I must give you a bill payable at sight,—whenever we may meet again, I mean; for just now this young man here can't spare me. I 'm his nurse, you see. I hope you understand me?”
“I believe I do.”
“Well, that's all right, stranger, and here's my hand on 't.” And even before O'Shea was well aware, the other had taken his hand in his strong grasp and was shaking it heartily. O'Shea found it very hard not to laugh outright, but there was a meaning-like determination in the American's manner that showed it was no moment for mirth.
It was, however, necessary to say something to relieve a very awkward pause, and so he observed,—
“I hope Mr. Layton's illness is not a serious one. I saw him, as I thought, perfectly well two days back.”