“That explains your being so dark,” I said.
“Yes, I suppose so,” he answered.
He did not confide in me to any further extent. As far as I could observe, he seemed moody and morbid. It seemed as if he had something on his mind—something of a disagreeable nature.
Well, toward the end of the voyage he had a bad fall. He was helping to furl sails when another sailor above him lost his hold, and fell on him. This made Antonio lose his hold also, and he dropped to the deck, striking his head.
It is a wonder he was not immediately killed. As it was he was fatally injured, as it proved, and was removed to his bunk in a dying condition. I pitied the poor fellow, and as much time as my duties would permit I spent at his side, trying to make him comfortable.
One evening he looked at me earnestly, and asked: “Do you think that I can live, George?”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to deceive you,” I answered, “and I will tell you the truth.”
“It is what I want to hear,” he said.
“The doctor says you can’t live.”
He showed no agitation, but said, thoughtfully: “That is what I thought.”