As a nation we may be on the
decline, but there is something to go on with in us yet.
Once when the narrator paused, Dr. Ruthine went to the side table and
opened some bottles.
"Whisky?" he inquired, with curt hospitality, "or anything else your
fancy may paint, down to tea."
Agar rose to pour out his own allowance, and for a moment the two men
stood together. With the critical eye of a soldier, which seems to weigh
flesh and blood, he looked his host for the time being up and down.
"They don't make men like you and me on tea," he said, reaching out his
hand towards a tumbler.
Then the story went on. At first the ship's doctor listened to it with
interest but without absorption, then suddenly something seemed to catch
his attention and hold it riveted. When a pause came he leant forward,
pointing an emphasising finger.
"When you spoke just now of the chief," he said, "did you mean Michael?"
"Yes."
"What! Seymour Michael?"
"Yes."
The Captain tapped his pipe against his boot and leant back with the
shrug of the shoulders awaiting further developments.
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