t Line was built.

And Oswald went on to ask if he could have this extra table in his room,
because these specimens of the disturbed dead was piling up on him and he
wanted to keep 'em in order. He had lighted one of his terrible cigars;
so I said I would quickly go and see about a table. I said that with his
venomous cigar going I would quickly have to go and see about something
or else have my olfactory nerve resected, which was a grand scientific
phrase I had brightly picked out and could play with one finger. It means
having something done so you can't smell any more.

The Prof laughed heartily, but Oswald only said he hadn't supposed I
would feel that way, considering the kind of tobacco my own cigarettes
was made of, though he was sorry and would hereafter smoke out of doors.
He took a joke like a child taking castor oil. Anyway, I went out and
found a spare table in the storeroom, and the Chink took it to Oswald's
room.

The fateful moment was at hand for which Nature had been conspiring all
these ages. The Chink held the table up against him, with the legs
sticking out, and Oswald went ahead to show him where to put it. Close
by the door, inside his room, was the lovely, yawning new trunk. Oswald
must of been afraid one of the table legs would spear it and mar its fair
varnish. He raised one hand to halt the table, then closed the trunk
tenderly, snapped the lock, and moved it over into the corner, beyond
chance of desecration.

Then he give careful directions for placing the table, which had to be
carried round the foot of the bed and past another table, which held
marine fossils and other fishbones. It was placed between this table
and still another, which held Oswald's compass and microscope and his
kill-kare kamp stove and his first-aid kit and his sportsman's belt
safe--all neatly arranged in line. I had followed to see if there was
anything more he needed, and he said no, thank you. So I come out here
to look over my mail that had just come.

Ten minutes later I felt the presence of a human being and looked up to
see that Oswald, the oldest living boy scout, was dying on his feet in
the doorway there. His face looked like he had been in jail three years.
I thought he had seen a ghost or had a heart shock. He looked as if he
was going to keel over. He had me scared. Finally he dragged himself over
to the table here and says faintly:

"I believe I should like a severe drink of whisky!"

I didn't ask