“Nothing to weep about,” Grief said genially.
Pankburn looked at him, and gushed tears of profound self-pity.
“It's hard,” he sobbed. “Hard. Hard. That man's my business manager. I employ him. I pay him a good screw. And that's how he earns it.”
“In that case, why don't you put a stop to it?” Grief advised.
“I can't. She'd shut off my whiskey. She's my trained nurse.”
“Fire her, then, and drink your head off.”
“I can't. He's got all my money. If I did, he wouldn't give me sixpence to buy a drink with.”
This woful possibility brought a fresh wash of tears. Grief was interested. Of all unique situations he could never have imagined such a one as this.
“They were engaged to take care of me,” Pankburn was blubbering, “to keep me away from the drink. And that's the way they do it, lollygagging all about the ship and letting me drink myself to death. It isn't right, I tell you. It isn't right. They were sent along with me for the express purpose of not letting me drink, and they let me drink to swinishness as long as I leave them alone. If I complain they threaten not to let me have another drop. What can a poor devil do? My death will be on their heads, that's all. Come on down and join me.”
He released his clutch on the rail, and would have fallen had Grief not caught his arm. He seemed to undergo a transformation, to stiffen physically, to thrust his chin forward aggressively, and to glint harshly in his eyes.