metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others

talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming

in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his

own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour. At the

farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on a

three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting

upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.


As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me and a

supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.


“Thank you. I have not come to stay,” said I. “There is a

friend of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him.”


There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering through the

gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring out at me.


“My God! It’s Watson,” said he. He was in a pitiable state of

reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. “I say, Watson, what

o’clock is it?”


“Nearly eleven.”


“Of what day?”


“Of Friday, June 19th.”


“Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What

d’you want to frighten a chap for?” He sank his face onto his arms

and began to sob in a high treble key.


“I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two

days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!”


“So I am. But you’ve got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a

few hours, three pipes, four pipes—I forget how many. But I’ll go

home with you. I wouldn’t frighten Kate—poor little Kate. Give me

your hand! Have you a cab?”


“Yes, I have one waiting.”


“Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe,

Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself.”


I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers, holding my