“I’d like to know more about everything here,” said Utterbourne, in a firm yet inviting voice.
“Yes?” answered King, his hands dangling forlornly. “Yes?” And he gazed with vacant eyes in which the last spark of fascination had long ago smouldered and gone out. He had an odd way of swaying and dodging, occasionally even raising an arm, as though to ward off some menace. When he spoke it was in a clear but singularly detached voice, and he seemed frequently to grope about for even the most commonplace words.
“Will you sit down and—talk to me?” he implored. “You don’t know—what did I start to say? You don’t know—what it’s like to hear a white man speak again!”
“I will,” agreed the Captain quietly. “Let me light the lamp. Where do you keep your matches?”
“I don’t seem to understand—very well. Would you mind being a little more—a little more....” He swayed and his eyes closed.
“Never mind. I have matches.” And in a moment the lamp was lighted, though it did not materially relieve the gloom of the place. Then Utterbourne sat down and spoke King’s name again in loud, commanding tone.
“Mr. King!”
It smote against the silence ominously. Utterbourne, with his life of multiple sensation, had perhaps never before found himself immersed in an atmosphere so profoundly sombre.
“Yes—yes,” muttered the swaying cadaver.
The Captain shook him, and the man on the cot made another genuine effort to control his waning senses.