"I know," he interrupted; "but I got to chance that. I got to make enough to go on with—until I see my family."
"If they won't see you?" I asked. "What then?"
He shrugged his shoulders and sighed lightly, almost with relief, as though for him the prospect held no terror.
"Then it's 'Good night, nurse,'" he said. "And I won't be a bother to anybody any more."
I told him his nerves were talking, and talking rot, and I gave him the sleeping-draft and sent him to bed.
It was not until after luncheon the next day when he made his first appearance on deck that I again saw my patient. He was once more a healthy picture of a young Englishman of leisure; keen, smart, and fit; ready for any exercise or sport. The particular sport at which he was so expert I asked him to avoid.
"Can't be done!" he assured me. "I'm the loser, and we dock to-morrow morning. So to-night I've got to make my killing."
It was the others who made the killing.
I came into the smoking-room about nine o'clock. Talbot alone was seated. The others were on their feet, and behind them in a wider semicircle were passengers, the smoking-room stewards, and the ship's purser.
Talbot sat with his back against the bulkhead, his hands in the pockets of his dinner coat; from the corner of his mouth his long cigarette-holder was cocked at an impudent angle. There was a tumult of angry voices, and the eyes of all were turned upon him. Outwardly at least he met them with complete indifference. The voice of one of my countrymen, a noisy pest named Smedburg, was raised in excited accusation.