“Well, come on in and get some breakfast. You ate no dinner——”
“Und I t’ink nefer again vill I eat.”
As he mournfully spoke these words, the poor man took from his pocket a stump of a pencil and a piece of paper and began to write. Shoshone watched him a moment and then asked what he was doing.
“I am writing my vill.”
At the same time Morris kept brushing his hand before his eyes, as though tormented by flies, and at last he said:
“Nefer dit I see cockroaches dot coult fly like dot. Dey comes right in your face!”
“Oh, ah—there are no—that is just the effect of your headache. That will pass off in a little while. A cup of strong coffee——”
“Nefer, nefer shall I eat again. I shall die here—und my poor Dora——”
Here the unhappy man broke down utterly and wept scalding tears of such unfeigned sorrow that Shoshone was greatly touched.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked of the sorrowing man.