"What are you laughing at?"
"He's going into this town, he's going to trust to his luck, because he can't stand the sight of green plush any longer. It's acting upon him psychologically, like red upon the fighting toro. On the other hand, he will not act impulsively again."
"He hasn't gone yet."
"A fig for that! He'll go with the police, then. His way or mine; he'll go into town to-night. Dress warmly but elegantly. Look the part."
Mathison put on a fresh collar and brushed himself carefully. He packed his kit-bags and patted them affectionately, as a hunter might have patted his faithful hounds. A real dinner, lights, cheerfulness, pretty women; a room big enough to turn around in, a bed big enough to turn over in, and a bathroom with a tub of hot water; a theater, perhaps, drama, opera, burlesque, whatever the town had to offer. He would play the game to the hilt. His danger would be maximum, whether he stayed in the hotel or walked abroad. So he might as well get all the fun out of it possible.
He lifted the cotton-flannel bag. "Malachi, we'll both have a bath to-night. Only, we're probably doing a fool thing. There won't be any one to watch over us; we'll have to go it on our own. But I'm done. I've got to get outside. You poor little beggar! Are you ever going to talk again? Malachi!"
A pair of yellow eyes flashed belligerently, but immediately the lids dropped.
Perhaps if the bird had the run of a room where everything was silent and motionless, he might find his tongue. For days he had known nothing but the strange swing of the sea and the rattle of steel. A quiet room in which he could wander about and claw up the curtains.