s trouble that voyage, and I
fancy he remembers me."

His confidences were becoming a nuisance.

"But you mustn't tell me that," I protested. "I can't have you making
trouble on this ship, too. How do you know I won't go straight from
here to the captain?"

As though the suggestion greatly entertained him, he laughed.

He made a mock obeisance.

"I claim the seal of your profession," he said.

"Nonsense," I retorted. "It's a professional secret that your nerves are
out of hand, but that you are a card-sharp is _not_. Don't mix me up
with a priest."

For a moment Talbot, as though fearing he had gone too far, looked at me
sharply; he bit his lower lip and frowned.

"I got to make expenses," he muttered. "And, besides, all card games are
games of chance, and a card-sharp is one of the chances. Anyway," he
repeated, as though disposing of all argument, "I got to make expenses."

After dinner, when I came to the smoking-room, the poker party sat
waiting, and one of them asked if I knew where they could find "my
friend." I should have said then that Talbot was a steamer acquaintance
only; but I hate a row, and I let the chance pass.

"We want to give him his revenge," one of them volunteered.

"He's losing, then?" I asked.

The man chuckled complacently.

"The only loser," he said.

"I wouldn't worry," I advised. "He'll come for his revenge."

That night after I had turned in he knocked at my door. I switched on
the lights and saw him standing at the foot of my berth. I saw also that
with difficulty he was holding himself in hand.

"I'm scared," he stammered, "scared!"

I wrote out a requisition on the surgeon for a sleeping-potion and sent
it to him by the steward, giving the man to understand I wanted it for
myself. Uninvited, Talbot had seated himself on the sofa. His eyes were
closed, and as though he were cold he was shivering and hugging himself
in his arms.

"Have you been drinking?" I asked.

In surprise he opened his eyes.

"_I_ can't drink," he answered simply. "It's nerves and worry. I'm
tired."

He relaxed against the cushions; his arms fell heavily at his sides; the
fingers lay open.

"God," he whispered, "how tired I am!"

In spite of his tan--and certainly he had led the out-of-door life--his
face showed white. For the moment he looked old, worn, finished.

"They're crowdin' me," the boy whispered. "They're always crowdin' me."
His voice was querulous, uncomprehending, like that