‘Are you ill, man, or are you drunk?’ demanded Grosket, pressing heavily on his shoulder. ‘Speak out, I say: what ails you? If you don’t find your tongue, I’ll find it for you.’
Jones, thus addressed, made an effort to rally, and partially succeeded; for after a moment he suddenly rose up erect, and in a clear, bold voice, replied:
‘I’m not drunk, Mr. Grosket, but I am ill; God knows what’s the matter with me. Look at me!’ he continued, stepping to where the light was strongest; ‘Look at me well. Wouldn’t you think I’d been on my back for months?’
‘You look ill enough;’ was the blunt reply.
‘Well, then, what do you want?’ demanded Jones, in a peevish tone; ‘why do you trouble me? I can’t bear it. Go away; go away.’
‘I will, when you’ve answered my question. Where’s Craig?’
‘I don’t know. He was here last night; but he went out, and hasn’t been here since.’
‘Where did he go?’
Jones shook his head: ‘He didn’t say.’
‘Was he alone?’