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Updated: May 21, 2025
You're such touchy devils. Then, changing the note into one of almost abject entreaty, Hummil added, 'I say, you surely aren't going? 'In the language of the blessed Jorrocks, where I dines I sleeps, said Spurstow. 'I want to have a look at your coolies to-morrow, if you don't mind. You can give me a place to lie down in, I suppose?
How does that thing go? Mottram took up the tune. 'Too slow by half. You miss the note of gratitude, said Hummil. 'It ought to go to the "Grasshopper's Polka," this way. And he chanted, prestissimo, 'Glory to thee, my God, this night. For all the blessings of the light. That shows we really feel our blessings. How does it go on?
In the silence after the storm he glided from the more directly personal songs of Scotland, half humming them as he played, into the Evening Hymn. 'Sunday, said he, nodding his head. 'Go on. Don't apologise for it, said Spurstow. Hummil laughed long and riotously. 'Play it, by all means. You're full of surprises to-day. I didn't know you had such a gift of finished sarcasm.
At the end of the narrative the silver cigarette-case was produced, and the last words that Hummil said as he fell back for the second time were, 'Put me quite to sleep; for if I'm caught I die, I die! 'Yes, yes; we all do that sooner or later, thank Heaven who has set a term to our miseries, said Spurstow, settling the cushions under the head.
Decidedly, Hummil ought to go on leave as soon as possible; and, sane or otherwise, he undoubtedly did rowel himself most cruelly. Well, Heaven send us understanding! At mid-day Hummil rose, with an evil taste in his mouth, but an unclouded eye and a joyful heart. 'I was pretty bad last night, wasn't I? said he. 'I have seen healthier men. You must have had a touch of the sun.
He was brought to me apparently past hope, and I gave him gin and Worcester sauce with cayenne. It cured him; but I don't recommend it. 'How do the cases run generally? said Hummil. 'Very simply indeed. Chlorodyne, opium pill, chlorodyne, collapse, nitre, bricks to the feet, and then the burning-ghat. The last seems to be the only thing that stops the trouble. It's black cholera, you know.
Spurstow started, dropping the pistol. Hummil stood in the doorway, rocking with helpless laughter. 'That was awf'ly good of you, I'm sure, he said, very slowly, feeling for his words. 'I don't intend to go out by my own hand at present. I say, Spurstow, that stuff won't work. What shall I do? What shall I do? And panic terror stood in his eyes. 'Lie down and give it a chance. Lie down at once.
The man had composed himself as rigidly as a corpse, his hands clinched at his sides. The respiration was too hurried for any suspicion of sleep. Spurstow looked at the set face. The jaws were clinched, and there was a pucker round the quivering eyelids. 'He's holding himself as tightly as ever he can, thought Spurstow. 'What in the world is the matter with him? Hummil!
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