Legrand's Wink
As I went down the corridor the figure of little Pye sprang out upon me from somewhere.
"Doctor," he said in a piteous voice. I stayed. "Doctor, I'm very ill. I'm just awful."
I looked at him closely. The flesh under his eyes was blue; the eyes themselves were bloodshot, and his hands shook. I felt his pulse, and it was racing.
"You're in a blue funk, Pye," said I severely.
He groaned. "Anything. I'll admit anything, doctor. But for heaven's sake let me go down to my bunk. I'll pull together there, I'll swear it."
"You'll go down and drink too much," I said.
"Not if you'll give me something. There must be lots of things," he pleaded. "I've never seen—I'm not fitted for this. Oh, doctor, I've only lived in a street before, a suburb, Tulse Hill. Think of that."
His voice cracked, and with the ghost of his favourite trick his fingers quavered with the glasses on his nose. I took a pity for the creature, a pity in which there was naturally some disgust.
"Very well," I said. "Go down, and I'll make it all right. I'll pay you a visit later."