Jimmy Crocker sank onto
the sofa, and closed his eyes.
"Bayliss."
"Sir?"
"A conviction is stealing over me that I am about to expire."
"Shall I bring you a little breakfast, Mr. James?"
A strong shudder shook Jimmy.
"Don't be flippant, Bayliss," he protested. "Try to cure yourself
of this passion for being funny at the wrong time. Your comedy is
good, but tact is a finer quality than humour. Perhaps you think
I have forgotten that morning when I was feeling just as I do
to-day and you came to my bedside and asked me if I would like a
nice rasher of ham. I haven't and I never shall. You may bring me
a brandy-and-soda. Not a large one. A couple of bath-tubs full
will be enough."
"Very good, Mr. James."
"And now leave me, Bayliss, for I would be alone. I have to make
a series of difficult and exhaustive tests to ascertain whether I
am still alive."
When the butler had gone, Jimmy adjusted the cushions, closed his
eyes, and remained for a space in a state of coma. He was trying,
as well as an exceedingly severe headache would permit, to recall
the salient events of the previous night. At present his memories
refused to solidify. They poured about in his brain in a fluid
and formless condition, exasperating to one who sought for hard
facts.
It seemed strange to Jimmy that the shadowy and inchoate vision of
a combat, a fight, a brawl of some kind persisted in flitting
about in the recesses of his mind, always just far enough away to
elude capture.
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