“Well, sort of,” with gentle sadness.
“I know how you feel. I been that way myself,” said the driver. Mr. Bartlett was short and stocky, with ruddy cheeks and great red hands. As one who mingled muck with the world, he prided himself on his social adaptability.
The stranger bestowed upon him a glance of frank displeasure. He felt vaguely that the other's sentiment was distasteful to him. It smacked of such fat complacency. At last he said, “I'd about made up my mind that I wa'n'. to see it again.” here a violent fit of coughing interrupted him. When it subsided, Mr. Bartlett remarked sympathetically:
“You ought to take something for that cough of your's. I would if it was mine.”
The stranger, still choking, shook his head.
“Where does it take you?”
“Here,” resting a bony hand on his sunken chest.
“Lungs?”
The stranger's jaws grew rigid. He favoured the driver with a sinister frown.
There was silence between them for a little space, which Mr. Bartlett devoted to a thoughtful study of his companion. Under this close scrutiny the stranger moved restlessly. A sense of the other's physical health oppressed him; it seemed to take from his own slender stock of vitality.