“Nonsense,” said Joyce. “You ’ll pull round when the spring comes.”
“I have performed my allotted task. It was a severe portion and it has finished me off.”
“Look here, old man,” cried Joyce, “for God’s sake don’t talk like that. I can’t live in this accursed place by myself. You’ve been broken down by our hard times—but you ’ll get over it all, with this long rest.”
“I am going to a longer one, Joyce. I don’t mind going, you know. And then you ’ll be free of me. I am but a cumberer of the ground—I am of no use—I never have been of any use—I have been carrying water in a sieve all my life.”
He began to cough. Joyce put his arm around him for support, and tended him gently.
“You have a lot to do, old man,” he said soon after. “The foolscap has come, and a great jar of ink, and you can start copying out the manuscript to-morrow.”
“Ah yes, I can do that,” said Noakes.
“Now go to sleep. I ’ll sit by you, if you like,” said Joyce.
He moved the lamp to a ledge behind Noakes’s head, and sat down near by, with the budget of newspapers. Noakes composed himself to sleep. At last he spoke, without turning round.
“Joyce.”