He did not wait for my question. "I heard him fumbling here and just
managed to squat myself down in the bath," he whispered to me. "The
fellow only opened the door and put his arm in to hang the coat up. All
"I never thought of that," I whispered back, even more appalled than
before at the closeness of the shave, and marveling at that something
unyielding in his character which was carrying him through so finely.
There was no agitation in his whisper. Whoever was being driven
distracted, it was not he. He was sane. And the proof of his sanity was
continued when he took up the whispering again.
"It would never do for me to come to life again."
It was something that a ghost might have said. But what he was alluding
to was his old captain's reluctant admission of the theory of suicide.
It would obviously serve his turn--if I had understood at all the view
which seemed to govern the unalterable purpose of his action.
"You must maroon me as soon as ever you can get amongst these islands
off the Cambodge shore," he went on.
"Maroon you! We are not living in a boy's adventure tale," I protested.
His scornful whispering took me up.