“Oh, Nevin—Nevin—for God’s sake put me to sleep! I’m full of burning and devils! Fill up that needle business and put me to sleep!... I can’t wait to get across in the New York World-News. That’s Reever Kennard’s own paper.”
20
The voices sounded far and muted—voices one might hear when swimming under water. It was easier for him to stay down than rise and answer. He seemed carried in the strong flow of a river, and preserved a consciousness, very vague, that it meant death to go down with the stream. At last, opening his eyes, he saw the city over the pier-sheds.
The rest of the manuscript was still under the pillow, but the water-pitcher rested upon the bare wood of the table. It was after twelve. His deadly fury had burned itself out. The thought of the World-News taking the story, steadied his weakness. It was much harder to dress than usual, however. He had no shore clothes, but Nevin would see to that for him. With a glad thrill, he realized that the Sickles had passed the quarantine, or she wouldn’t be in the slip. His mind turned to Nevin again, and when he was thinking about this deep-rooted habit the voyage had inculcated, the Doctor himself entered.
“Well, you gave me a night.”
“You’ll have some rest now.”
“I’ve brought some clothes for you to go ashore with.... The Western States got your story two hours ago. Ferry has gone ashore.”
“Did the reporter take it here—or from across the harbor in quarantine?”
“He was waiting with others—for us to be turned loose. I gave him the stuff as we were putting about. He didn’t come aboard, I saw his launch reach landing. I told him to put the stuff into the hands of Noyes and to hurry back. All of which he did——”
“Why to hurry back?”