To live in this infernal bulkhead for days, eating, sleeping, reading—that would be the supreme test, that would prove whether the metal in him was iron-casting or forged steel. Never to question the porters, to confuse his enemies by a grim silence, to force them into offensives out of sheer curiosity.
"We idiotic Yankees!"
That night as he lay in his berth—it was after one o'clock—solving mathematical problems which had to do with jumps between trains, he became conscious of a pleasant odor. He recognized it. Instantly he sat up and hauled away at the window. Next he brought over Malachi and lowered the covering of the cage. The cold night air came in at the rate of a gale. Then he remembered the fan. He groped for the button, and the fan began to hum. Still he could smell the fumes. Suddenly he laughed. It was the cold, tranquil laughter of a man who had lived among men. He pressed the porter's bell. If there was any one waiting in the corridor, he would have to move on. But if the porter did not arrive!
The porter, however, came almost at once. Mathison, holding his automatic behind his back, opened the door full wide.
"Any way of getting a cup of coffee?"
"No, suh."
"Sorry to have bothered you, then."
All Mathison wanted was an open door for a minute or two—a clearing draught. When he shut the door there was only a vague taint. Clever work. Not a lethal fume; neither his heart nor his lungs were troubled in the least. A sleep fume. There had been an almost irresistible desire to curl up and let the world go hang.
Malachi's feathers were ruffled, but he clung to his perch, his eyes beaming with their usual malignancy.