“Ever try standing on a ship’s deck, in the dark, knowing you’re going to drown in about twenty minutes?” asked Hill.
Hardy leaned forward to strike a match for his cigarette. “I don’t agree with you,” he said.
“Well, but—” began Hill.
“Neither of you.”
“Oh, of course, you’re outside the argument. You lead an adventurous life. You keep in condition for danger. It isn’t fair.”
“No.” Hardy lit his cigarette and inhaled a puff thoughtfully. “You don’t understand. All you have to say does have some bearing upon things, but, when you get down to brass tacks, it’s instinct—at the last gasp, it’s instinct. You can’t get away from it. Look at the difference between a thoroughbred and a cold-blooded horse! There you are! That’s true. It’s the fashion now to discount instinct, I know; well—but you can’t get away from it. I’ve thought about the thing—a lot. Men are brave against their better reason, against their conscience. It’s a mixed-up thing. It’s confusing and—and sort of damnable,” he concluded lamely.
“Sort of damnable!” ejaculated Hill wonderingly.
“Yes, damnable.”
I experienced inspiration. “You’ve got a concrete instance back of that,” I ventured.
Hardy removed his gaze from the ceiling. “Er—” he stammered. “Why, yes—yes. That’s true.”