THE ARM-CHAIR AT THE INN
me from the same awful plunge—his last in life. I never got over the feeling until we reached port, for his berth was left untouched and his tin tobacco-box still lay beside his pillow. Even now when a sailor or fisherman pulls out an old tin box—they are all pretty much alike—or cuts a plug with a sheath knife, it gives me a shudder.”
“Served the brute right!” cried Louis. “Very good story, Herbert—a little exaggerated in parts, particularly where you were so absent-minded as to select the face of the gentleman for your murderous kick, but it’s all right: very good story. I could freeze you all solid by an experience I had with an Apache who followed me on my way to Montmartre last week, but I won’t.”
“Give it to us, Louis!” cried everybody in unison.
“No!”
“Well, why not?” I demanded.
“Because he turned down the next street. I said I could, and I would if he’d kept on after me. Your turn, Brierley. We haven’t heard from you since you kept school for crows and wild ducks and taught them how to dodge bird shot. Unhook your ear-flaps, gentlemen; the
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