"Well, so are all of us, if you come to that," observed the doctor.
"Oh, I know, I know," cried Verrill, "it is morbid and all that. But that don't help me any. Can you imagine me one month from to-morrow night. Think now. I'm alone, absolutely, and there is the long empty table, with the thirty places set, and the extra place, and those places are where all my old friends used to sit. And at twelve I get up and give first 'The Absent Ones,' and then 'The Guest of the Evening.' I gave those toasts last year, but there were two of us, then, and the year before there were three. But ever since Curtice died and we were narrowed down to four, this thing has been weighing on me—this idea of death, and I've conceived a horror of it—a—a dread. And now I am the last. I had no idea this would ever happen to me; or if it did, that it would be like this. I'm shaken, Henry, shaken. I've not slept for three nights. So I've come to you. You must help me."
"So I will, by advising you. You give up the idiocy. Cut out the dinner this year; yes, and for always."
"You don't understand," replied Verrill, calmly. "It is impossible. I could not keep away. I must be there."
"But it's simple lunacy," expostulated the doctor. "Man, you've worked upon your nerves over this fool club and dinner, till I won't be responsible for you if you carry out this notion. Come, promise me you will take the train for, say Florida, tomorrow, and I'll give you stuff that will make you sleep. St. Augustine is heaven at this time of year, and I hear the tarpon have come in. Shall—"
Verrill shook his head.
"You don't understand," he repeated. "You simply don't understand. No, I shall go to the dinner. But of course I'm—I'm nervous—a little. Did I say I was scared? I didn't mean that. Oh, I'm all right; I just want you to prescribe for me, something for the nerves. Henry, death is a terrible thing,—to see 'em all struck down, twenty-nine of 'em—splendid boys. Henry, I'm not a coward. There's a difference between cowardice and fear. For hours last night I was trying to work it out. Cowardice—that's just turning tail and running; but I shall go through that Annual Dinner, and that's ordeal enough, believe me. But fear,—it's just death in the abstract that unmans me. That's the thing to fear. To think that we all go along living and working and fussing from day to day, when we know that this great Monster, this Horror, is walking up and down the streets, and that sooner or later he'll catch us,—that we can't escape. Isn't it the greatest curse in the world! We're so used to it we don't realise the Thing. But suppose one could eliminate the Monster altogether. Then we'd realise how sweet life was, and we'd look back at the old days with horror—just as I do now."
"Oh, but this is rubbish," cried the doctor, "simple drivel. Manning, I'm ashamed of you. I'll prescribe for you, I suppose I've got to. But a good rough fishing-and-hunting-trip would do more for you than a gallon of drugs. If you won't go to Florida, get out of town, if it's only over Sunday. Here's your prescription, and do take a Friday-to-Monday trip. Tramp in the woods, get tired, and don't go to that dinner!"
"You don't understand," repeated Verrill, as the two stood up. He put the prescription into his pocket-book. "You don't understand. I couldn't keep away. It's a duty, and besides—well I couldn't make you see. Good-by. This stuff will make me sleep, eh? And do my nerves good, too, you say? I see. I'll come back to you if it don't work. Good-by again. This door, is it? Not through the waiting-room, eh? Yes, I remember.... Henry, did you ever—did you ever face death yourself—I mean—"
"Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense," cried the doctor. But Verrill persisted. His back to the closed door, he continued: