horrid thought that I cannot repay you.

My father, you know, is principal of a public school and actually managed
to save some money. But he has five children beside myself, all of whom
are unprovided for. He looked upon me as his capital which would bring
more than the usual rate of interest. Being a practical man, he now
realises he has lost both principal and interest.

In brief, he is afraid of responsibilities which unfortunately I cannot
shoulder in the better world to come--faugh, faugh, faugh!--I spit three
times. What shall I do? Would you be able to forego the payment of my
debt?

Several times, old boy, I have been two thirds of the way over already,
and I have left for you some notes on the states I have passed through,
which may not be lacking in scientific interest. Should it be possible
for me, after the great moment, to make myself noticeable from the
Beyond, you will hear from me again.

Where are you? Good-bye. In the vivid, flashing orgies of my nocturnal
dreams, you are always tossing in a ship on the high seas. Do you intend
to go on an ocean trip?

It is January. Isn't there a certain advantage in not needing to dread
April weather any longer? I shake hands with you, Frederick von
Kammacher.

Yours,
George Rasmussen.

* * * * *

Frederick, of course, had immediately sent a telegram from Paris, which
relieved the son, dying a heroic death, from solicitude for his hale
father.

Though Frederick von Kammacher had profound troubles of his own to occupy
his mind, his thoughts kept recurring to the letter in his pocket and his
dying friend. To an imaginative person of thirty, his life of the past
few years is in an eminent degree present to his mind. There had been a
tragic turn in Frederick's own life, and now tragedy had also entered his
friend's life, a tragedy far more awful.

The two young men had been separated for a number of years. They had met
again and passed a number of happy weeks together, enriched by a liberal
exchange of ideas. Those weeks were the beginning of similar epochs in
the career of each. It was at little winter festivities in Frederick von
Kammacher's comfortable home that the cigarettes of Simon Arzt of Port
Said, which Rasmussen had brought from the place of their manufacture,
had played their role.

Now, in the reading-room of Hofmann's Hotel, near the harbour, he wrote
him a letter.

* * * * *