“You’re all right, anyway, aren’t you, Mathers?” he asked.
“Of course I am. What the dickens d’ you mean?”
“Nothing. Glad you like my baccy. There’s plenty of time for another pipe.”
“No there isn’t,” said Mathers. “I very much wish there was.”
We walked on a few yards farther.
“D’ you drink that rich, brown cod-liver oil, the same as Nubby?” asked Steggles of Mathers, suddenly. Mathers looked at him, and I knew how things were in a moment. For a moment my own sufferings were forgotten before the awful spectacle of the ruin of Mathers. He gave his pipe back quietly, took great gasps of air, mopped his forehead, and rolled his eyes about. Then he said:
“I’m not quite happy about Nubbs. You push on, and I’ll overtake you.”
“Hanged if you’re not queer too!” exclaimed Steggles. “Whoever would have thought that Three Castles--”
“Shut up,” said Mathers, hoarsely. “It was the boi--boiled beef at dinner.”
He spoke the words with an awful effort.