“Most strong young men have a horror of it,” he remarked dryly, “as well as some old ones.”
Faunce looked up at him with a dazed face.
“Have you ever been afraid—mortally afraid to die?” he asked hoarsely.
Gerry shook his head.
“I never had time.”
“Then you can’t understand!”
The exclamation was almost a cry. It seemed to be wrung from some agonized inner consciousness that had escaped his control, for Faunce leaned back in his chair, gripping the arms with his strong, nervous hands, and a slow, deep flush mounted over his pale face.
The doctor refilled his old pipe and lit it with elaborate preoccupation.
“Was that what ailed you down there at the pole?” he asked between whiffs.
Faunce, fully roused, started.