"He has diamonds on the brain!" I hear some ruffian exclaim, and in
another second--
* * * * *
Well--what happened I cannot tell you: I must have fainted. When I
came to myself I was lying by the chair in which I had been previously
sitting when listening to the Captain's reading, and bending over me
with a glass of water in his hand, was the faithful and clever Doctor
whose companionship on this voyage of discovery I am daily and hourly
learning to appreciate at its proper value. I fancy the ship's crew
were round about me, with the Engineer and the Chaplain. I feel
inclined to say, "HARDY, HARDY, kiss me, HARDY!" and then something
about "Tell them at home"--but the words stick in my throat, as they
did in _Macbeth's_ throat (only they were other words) when he was on
his throat-sticking expedition. (Little Shakspearian reference thrown
in here, and no extra charge.)
"How many of these has he had?" I hear the Doctor say, and I perceived
that he was holding up an empty tumbler. I should like to explain
that, as we were engaged in composition, there had been 'composing
draughts.
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