“I am—Ferdinand King,” he said, almost in a chanting way. “I came out here to take charge of a—of a....” He seemed to drift again and lose the thread.
“I know,” encouraged the other man.
“Opium! That was it! Sometimes it all seems—to fade away. We were keeping it dark....” A sound like a rattling chuckle drifted off his lips. Then his eyes gradually filled with such a look of penetrating anguish that the Captain shaded his own eyes and gazed at the tiny spirit flame beneath its dome of glass. “Even my wife ...” murmured King. It was a look, surely, that came from the very bottom of the beaten man’s soul; and it takes a superhuman courage indeed to behold such a look with no flinching.
Tears rushed from King’s eyes, and he went on murmuring: “I had a wife once—a lovely girl—so pretty and gentle—but perhaps you’ve seen her....” His voice was low, and he went on more brokenly, rocking himself slowly back and forth: “They say she has died. She seems—to be gone away....” He struggled, his eyes moving vaguely. “Gone away.... Oh, God help me!” he suddenly cried out with a hollow yet considerable force. Then he grew dense and inaudible again, though continuing to mutter, apparently under the persuasion that he was still speaking intelligently.
Utterbourne, his glance roving about the dim sombre place, caught sight of an uncased hunting knife on the table beneath the lamp with its crazy shade. The knife had a menacing, a naked look.
The man on the cot was babbling weakly, and to bring him back once more to a state of coherency, Utterbourne spoke with the former incision: “Look here, King!”
“I’m glad you’ve—come,” the other managed thickly, his eyes gazing sadly out through tears that had pooled and ceased flowing. “I was looking for you—there’s a big book over there—over there....” His arm waved with childish vagueness. “I started in to write up—a report. There would have been time....” He made a ghastly attempt to smile. Then, “I’m afraid,” he drifted, “you’ll find it—not quite up to date....”
Utterbourne perceived the book, down on the floor under a mantle of dust. He crossed, curious, and took it up. The first hundred pages or so were filled with a flowing and elegant penmanship, but toward the end the writing had grown shaky and rough. The last entry was dated November 17.
“In a little while,” muttered King nebulously, “I’m going—on with it....” When Utterbourne returned he found him examining his nails with close attention. Now and then he rubbed his palms together gently. The tears that lay splashed on his cheeks already were emblems of an emotion so ancient that the wretched man had forgotten it, almost as though through eons of Brahmic life.
“Yes—yes.... What was I saying? About the crop? We’ve been—very successful—but I hope another year....” He dozed and came to. “I say I hope we’ll be able to put up—a tank for the rains so we can irrigate. Then you see ... I don’t know.... Does that answer your question?”