Jimmy straightened himself slowly, while the color paled in his face.
"When did it happen—and how?" he asked.
"Last night. The doctor had been round once or twice since you went away, and I understood from what Prescott said that he was getting along satisfactorily—that is, physically."
Jimmy said nothing, but looked at him with hard, questioning eyes.
"Well, it appears he was worrying himself considerably. Told Prescott it was a pity he couldn't die right away. Nobody had any use for him, and he didn't want to be a burden. Seems he went over it quite often. The doctor had cut him off from the whisky."
He stopped, with evident embarrassment and pain in his face; but Jimmy's eyes never wavered, though a creeping horror came upon him. In spite of the difficulty he had in thinking, he felt that he had not yet heard all.
"Go on," he said in a low, harsh voice.
"I don't think I could have told you, only it would have fallen on Eleanor if I hadn't, and she has as much as she can bear. You'll keep that in mind, won't you, Jimmy? He got some whisky—we don't know how—one of the wharf-hands who used to look in bought it for him, most probably. Prescott had to go out now and then, you see."
He stopped for a moment, and made a little gesture of sympathy before he went on again. "Somehow he fell over the table, and the kerosene lamp went over with it too. When one of the neighbors who heard him call went in nobody could have done anything for him."
The last trace of color ebbed from Jimmy's face, and he stood very still, with set lips and tightly clenched hands. Then he turned aside with a groan of horror.