The red-hot gun-barrel had fallen on the floor and was singeing the carpet. The smell was entirely real.
That morning at eleven we two together went to wake up Fleete. We looked and saw that the black leopard-rosette on his chest had disappeared. He was very drowsy and tired, but as soon as he saw us, he said, ‘Oh! Confound you fellows. Happy New Year to you. Never mix your liquors. I’m nearly dead.’
‘Thanks for your kindness, but you’re over time,’ said Strickland. ‘To-day is the morning of the second. You’ve slept the clock round with a vengeance.’
The door opened, and little Dumoise put his head in. He had come on foot, and fancied that we were laving out Fleete.
‘I’ve brought a nurse,’ said Dumoise. ‘I suppose that she can come in for... what is necessary.’
‘By all means,’ said Fleete cheerily, sitting up in bed. ‘Bring on your nurses.’
Dumoise was dumb. Strickland led him out and explained that there must have been a mistake in the diagnosis. Dumoise remained dumb and left the house hastily. He considered that his professional reputation had been injured, and was inclined to make a personal matter of the recovery. Strickland went out too. When he came back, he said that he had been to call on the Temple of Hanuman to offer redress for the pollution of the god, and had been solemnly assured that no white man had ever touched the idol and that he was an incarnation of all the virtues labouring under a delusion.
‘What do you think?’ said Strickland.
I said, ‘“There are more things . . .”’
But Strickland hates that quotation. He says that I have worn it threadbare.