I don't know when my eyes may give out. The spots and dots and the pains and things are crowding worse than ever, I swear I can see all right when I'm—when I'm moderately screwed, as you say. Give me three more sittings from Bessie and all the—stuff I want, and the picture will be done. I can't kill myself in three days. It only means a touch of D.T. at the worst.'
'If I give you three days more will you promise me to stop work and—the other thing, whether the picture's finished or not?'
'I can't. You don't know what that picture means to me. But surely you could get the Nilghai to help you, and knock me down and tie me up. I shouldn't fight for the whiskey, but I should for the work.'
'Go on, then. I give you three days; but you're nearly breaking my heart.'
Dick returned to his work, toiling as one possessed; and the yellow devil of whiskey stood by him and chased away the spots in his eyes. The Melancolia was nearly finished, and was all or nearly all that he had hoped she would be. Dick jested with Bessie, who reminded him that he was 'a drunken beast'; but the reproof did not move him.
'You can't understand, Bess. We are in sight
