"They always do, Martha. I've noticed that before. But what did he tell you?"
"He told me that he had died."
"Was that all? Explain him."
"It was this way. The man went down with a bad go of fever and was off his head. About the second day it struck him in the middle of the night."
"Steady the Buffs! Martha, you aren't an Irishman yet."
"Never mind. It's too hot to put it correctly. In the middle of the night he woke up quite calm, and it struck him that it would be a good thing to die—just as it might ha' struck him that it would be a good thing to put ice on his head. He lay on his bed and thought it over, and the more he thought about it, the better sort of bundobust it seemed to be. He was quite calm, you know, and he said that he could have sworn that he had no fever on him."
"Well, what happened?"
"Oh, he got up and loaded his revolver—he remembers all this—and let fly, with the muzzle to his temple. The thing didn't go off, so he turned it up and found he'd forgot to load one chamber."
"Better stop the tale there. We can guess what's coming."
"Hang it! It's a true yarn. Well, he jammed the thing to his head again, and it missed fire, and he said that he felt ready to cry with rage, he was so disgusted. So he took it by the muzzle and hit himself on the head with it."