In answer to Essex’s “come in,” the door opened and Harney shambled into the room. He was fully dressed, but showed the evidences of illness in his hollowed cheeks and eyes, and the yellow skin hanging flaccid round jaw and throat. His hand shook and his gait was uncertain, but he was perfectly sober.
“I came to have a squint at the paper, Doc,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I can’t go out with this blasted wheezing on me. Don’t want to die in my prime.”
Essex threw the paper across the table at him.
“There’s news to-night,” he said, taking up his book; “Shackleton’s dead.”
The man stopped as if electrified.
“Shackleton? Jake Shackleton?” he said in a loud voice.
“Jake Shackleton,” answered Essex, surprised at the startled astonishment of his face. “Did you know him?”
Harney snatched the paper and opened it with an unsteady hand. He ran his eyes over the lines under the black-lettered heading of the first page.
“By gosh!” he said to himself, “so he is; so he is!”
He sat down in the chair at the opposite side of the table, smoothed out the sheet and read the account slowly and carefully.