“Wait a moment; you are ill; you must rest a bit,” said Pollock.
Dameron turned his head from side to side and put one tremulous hand to his throat with a helpless gesture.
“The corn; the corn! Who are you? Say, who are you?” And he caught hold of Pollock’s coat lapels and tried to lift himself by them.
“It’s Pollock. Don’t be alarmed. You are ill. I will help you back to the house.”
“Thank you; thank you. But I need no help. I was walking; just walking. I am quite well.”
He seemed to regain his strength suddenly and stood up, leaning heavily upon Pollock.
“Yes, you are Captain Pollock. I remember you very well, sir,—very well, sir. I’m quite surprised to see you.”
“I was afraid you were ill,” said Pollock, standing back, while Dameron shook himself and beat the dirt from his clothing.
“You seem to be all right. I thought you were sick. I heard you from the road as I was passing.”
“You heard me? Yes. I was looking at the field. I am very fond of walking at night. It’s quieting to the nerves. Yes. My physician recommended it. I suppose, at your age, and in your profession, you are not troubled with nerves. You are very fortunate. I must go back to the house. They will be alarmed if I am gone too long.”