“The whiskey!” shivered Caradoc. “I came up here to get away from it.”
“Oh—so you didn't see—I understand!”
“It's tantalizing—horrible!” he shivered again, as if the superheated air chilled him.
The American's own foolish fancies vanished in the face of his friend's real trouble. Caradoc had met a dragon more terrible than the Sargasso could conjure up, and its fangs were in his heart. His flight to the crow's nest had been an effort to escape its fury, but it had followed him there. Leonard put a hand on his friend's shoulder. He was at a loss what to say. Indeed there was nothing to say.
“Habit—queer thing, Leonard—I thought I was all right.”
“Yes?”
“You see, in college I used to take an alcohol rub-down after my bouts, and a drink. And now, after my fight at noon—smelling this—you don't know how it brings it back, appetite, recollections, everything——” he waved his hands hopelessly again.
“Don't think of it. Put your mind on something else.”
