He had become possessed of the mournful privilege of the insane, to fight without raising ire in one’s antagonists, to smash with impunity—to murder without being brought to justice.
Also he recognised that he had been a fool. He had acted like a mad-man—that is to say, like a man furious with anger. Anger and madness have awful similarities.
He moved slightly away from Simms.
“I reckon I’ve been a fool,” said he, “three to one is not fair play. Come, let my hands free, I won’t fight any more.”
“Certainly,” said Simms. “But let me point out that we were not fighting you in the least, only preventing you from taking a course detrimental to your health. Cavendish, will you kindly untie that absurd handkerchief?”
Cavendish obeyed, and Jones, his hands freed, rubbed his wrists.
“What are you going to do now?” asked he.
“Nothing,” said Simms, “you are perfectly free, but we don’t want you to go out till your health is perfectly restored. I know, you will say that you feel all right. No matter, take a physician’s advice and just remain here quiet for a little while. Shall we go to the library where you can amuse yourself with the newspaper or a book whilst I make up a little prescription for you?”
“Look here,” said Jones. “Let’s talk quietly for a moment—you think I’m mad.”
“Not in the least!” said Simms. “You are only suffering from a nerve upset.”