"Well," he said, "all that I can say is that you ought to be dead. But it's not my business."
He had seen too many freaks of fortune to be surprised at this.
"I thought," he continued, "that there was something familiar about the back of your head. Back of a man's head never changes. It's a funny thing."
He sat down in his usual chair, and looked with a cheery smile upon him who had risen from the death column of the _Times_. Then he turned to his pipe.
"You know, Agar," he said, "I was beastly sorry about that--death of yours. Cut me up wonderfully for a few minutes. That is saying a lot in these days."
"It is very kind of you to say so," he said rather awkwardly.
"And I," added Dr. Ruthine from behind the whisky and soda tray, in the deliberate voice of a man who is saying something with an effort, "felt that it was a pity. That is how it struck me--a pity."
Then, very disjointedly, and in a manner which could scarcely be set down here, Major James Agar told his singular story. There are--thank heaven!--many such stories still untold; there are, one would be inclined to hope, many such still uncommenced. As a nation we may be on the decline, but there is something to go on with in us yet.
Once when the narrator paused, Dr. Ruthine went to the side table and opened some bottles.
"Whisky?" he inquired, with curt hospitality, "or anything else your fancy may paint, down to tea."
Agar rose to pour out his own allowance, and for a moment the two men stood together. With the critical eye of a soldier, which seems to weigh flesh and blood, he looked his host for the time being up and down.
"They don't make men like you and me on tea," he said, reaching out his hand towards a tumbler.
Then the story went on. At first the ship's doctor listened to it with interest but without absorption, then suddenly something seemed to catch his attention and hold it riveted. When a pause came he leant forward, pointing an emphasising finger.
"When you spoke just now of the chief," he said, "did you mean Michael?"
The Captain tapped his pipe against his boot and leant back with the shrug of the shoulders awaiting further developments.
"And you mean to tell me that you put yourself entirely in the hands of Seymour Michael?" pursued the Doctor.