"I am dying," answered the engineer, and a faint pink froth bubbled to his lips as he spoke.
Hovey merely laughed; he spilled Klopp's share of the gold across the surface of the table, a gleaming pile.
"How are you, Klopp?" he repeated.
"I will live," croaked the dying man, and instantly his clutches were among the hundreds of coins, and his red mouth grinned with a ghastly joy. He had forgotten death.
"You will live!" rumbled Sam Hall. "A man would be a fool to die when there's so much money in sight. Where's your hurt?"
"I have no hurt," whispered Klopp hoarsely, "but I'm on fire inside.
Water! Something to drink!"
"Something to drink, but not water," responded Hovey. "Hey, Kamasura!
Drink! Whisky!"
Instantly Kamasura, who had evidently anticipated the order, came staggering into the room with a literal armful of bottles. Hovey himself brought a glass and placed it in the hand of Klopp and filled it to the brim.
"Drink!" shouted Hovey, and sprang upon a chair so that all might see him. "Drink to Fritz Klopp! White Henshaw potted him, but he laughs at death, and he'll bring the old Heron to shore. Here's to Fritz Klopp!"
Many a glass was raised high. They drank with a shout of applause to Fritz Klopp, who sat without stirring his glass, one hand upon it, and the other buried among the heaps of gold, his head resting against the back of the chair, and his red mouth still ajar in that horrible grin.