"What else," I said.
"You are not a married man?" he inquired, looking at me restlessly. "No; never mind," he paused, and proceeded in his ridiculously precise voice. "I had the misfortune to lose my wife and my son in a fortnight—about a month ago. It has rather upset me."
It might have seemed comic communicated in that matter-of-fact tone, but somehow it struck me as tragic. That this vain, self-contained, and reticent man should confess to the frailty of humanity to a man he disliked was the measure of his suffering.
"I can mend the sleep, captain," said I. "You must do the rest."
"Good God!" he shook his head and stood up.
"No," said I, "sit down. I'll see to you. Let me ring."
In a few minutes I had my case of instruments, and carefully extracted what I wanted, while Day looked on feverishly impatient.
"I'm going to do what has already been done this night," I said gravely, "but in a better cause."
I raised the syringe, and bade him put back the sleeve of his pyjama. A rush of pain went through my arm which had been bruised and battered in the sea, and suddenly the cabin went from me. For the first and only time in my life I fainted.
When I came to Day was bending over me, glass in hand, a look of solicitude on his face.