Part 2 (1/2)
”Barring the negligible difference of a few minutes or months, that's me,” returned Whitaker. ”But never mind, boy--run along.”
”I'd like to know what you mean by that,” Peter remarked, obviously worried.
”I mean that I'm practically a dead man--so near it that it makes no difference.”
”The devil you say! What's the matter with you?”
”Ask Greyerson. I can't remember the name--it's too long--and I couldn't p.r.o.nounce it if I did.”
Peter's eyes narrowed. ”What foolishness has Greyerson been putting into your head?” he demanded. ”I've a good mind to go punch his--”
”It isn't his fault,” Whitaker a.s.serted. ”It's my own--or rather, it's something in the nature of a posthumous gift from my progenitors; several of 'em died of it, and now it seems I must. Greyerson says so, at least, and when I didn't believe him he called in Hartt and Bushnell to hold my ante-mortem. They made it unanimous. If I'm uncommonly lucky I may live to see next Thanksgiving.”
”Oh, shut up!” Peter exploded viciously. ”You make me tired--you and your bone-headed M.D.'s!”
He worked himself into a comforting rage, d.a.m.ning the medical fraternity liberally for a gang of bloodthirsty a.s.sa.s.sins and threatening to commit a.s.sault and battery upon the person of Greyerson, though Whitaker did his best to make him understand that matters were what they were--irremediable.
”You won't find any higher authorities than Hartt and Bushnell,” he said. ”They are the court of last resort in such cases. When they hand down a decision, there's no come-back.”
”You can't make me believe that,” Peter insisted. ”It just can't be so.
A man like you, who's always lived clean.... Why, look at your athletic record! Do you mean to tell me a fellow could hold a job as undisputed best all-round man in his cla.s.s for four years, and all the time handicapped by a const.i.tutional...? Oh, get out! Don't talk to me. I'm far more likely to be doing my bit beneath the daisies six months from now.... I won't believe it!”
His big, red, generous fist described a large and inconclusive gesture of violence.
”Well,” he growled finally, ”grant all this--which I don't, not for one little minute--what do you mean to do?”
”I don't mind telling you,” said Whitaker: ”I don't know. Wish I did. Up to within the last few minutes I fully intended to cut the knot with my own knife. It's not reasonable to ask a man to sit still and watch himself go slowly to pieces....”
”No,” said Stark, sitting down. ”No,” he admitted grudgingly; ”but I'm glad you've given that up, because I'm right and all these fool doctors are wrong. You'll see. But....” He couldn't help being curious. ”But why?”
”Well,” Whitaker considered slowly--”it's Alice Carstairs. You know what she's done.”
”You don't mean to say you're going--that you think there's any consideration due her?”
”Don't you?” Whitaker smiled wearily. ”Perhaps you're right. I don't know. We won't discuss the ethics of the situation; right or wrong, I don't mean to shadow whatever happiness she has in store for her by ostentatiously snuffing myself out just now.”
Peter gulped and succeeded in saying nothing. But he stared.
”At the same time,” Whitaker resumed, ”I don't think I can stand this sort of thing. I can't go round with my flesh creeping to hear the whisperings behind my back. I've got to do something--get away somewhere.”
Abrupt inspiration sparked the imagination of Peter Stark, and he began to sputter with enthusiasm.
”I've got it!” he cried, jumping to his feet. ”A sea trip's just the thing. Chances are, it'll turn the trick--bring you round all right-O, and prove what a.s.ses doctors are. What d'you say? Are you game for a sail? The _Adventuress_ is laid up at New Bedford now, but I can have her put in commission within three days. We'll do it--we'll just light out, old man! We'll try that South Seas thing we've talked about so long. What d'you say?”
A warm light glowed in Whitaker's sunken eyes. He nodded slowly.
III
”MRS. MORTEN”