"It's I. Let me in," I called back.
The door was opened slowly and little Pye stood before me. In the illumination of the incandescent wire he stood out ghastly white.
"It's you, doctor," he said weakly.
The smell of spirits pervaded the cabin. I looked across and saw a tumbler in the rack, half full of whisky and water. He noticed the direction of my gaze.
"I can't sleep," said he. "This heavy water has given me a touch of sea-sickness. I feel awfully queer."
"I don't suppose whisky will do you any good," said I.
He laughed feebly and vacantly. "Oh, but it does! It stays the stomach. Different people are affected different ways, doctor." As he spoke he took down the glass with quivering fingers and drank from it in a clumsy gulp.
"I shall be better if I can get to sleep," he said nervously, and drank again.
"Pye, you're making trouble for yourself," said I. "You'll be pretty bad before morning."
"Oh, for goodness' sake, don't talk about morning!" he broke out in a fit of terror.