On the following day Dr. Currie came to me. I was playing chess on deck.
"Can you spare me a minute in my cabin, Docther?" he inquired. And when I got there he told me that Toillet was very bad; he feared delirium tremens. Would I see him in consultation?
Toillet was certainly rather ill; twisting and turning in his bunk, with bright expressionless eyes and busy fingers and a face flushed and unshaved.
"Jolly glad to see you, d'Er—d'Er—what is it?" he said. "Have a drink; ring for the steward."
"Too hot, old man; wait a bit," I said quietly. "You're not looking quite fit."
"Fit!" he shouted, starting up. "Fit! How can I be fit with that she-devil about? Where is she now?" He looked vacantly round the cabin. "Mamie, you little devil, where are you?" he continued in a loud voice. And then, whispering confidentially: "She's always spying about somewhere—perhaps she's under the bunk?"
"No, no; she's on deck," answered Currie. "I'll go and bring her back in a minute," turning to me.
As he left the sick man leaned over to me.
