nkin glared with avidity. Then Jimmy, without
stirring, blinked his eyelids, and Donkin had another shock. Those eyes
were rather startling. He shut the door behind his back with gentle
care, looking intently the while at James Wait as though he had come
in there at a great risk to tell some secret of startling im-portance.
Jimmy did not move but glanced languidly out of the corners of his
eyes.--"Calm?" he asked.--"Yuss," said Donkin, very disappointed, and sat
down on the box.

Jimmy was used to such visits at all times of night of day. Men
succeeded one another. They spoke in clear voices, pronounced cheerful
words, repeated old jokes, listened to him; and each, going out, seemed
to leave behind a little of his own vitality, surrender some of his own
strength, renew the assurance of life--the indestructible thing! He did
not like to be alone in his cabin, because, when he was alone, it seemed
to him as if he hadn't been there at all. There was nothing. No pain.
Not now. Perfectly right--but he couldn't enjoy his healthful repose
unless some one was by to see it. This man would do as well as anybody.
Donkin watched him stealthily:--"Soon home now," observed Wait.--"Vy d'yer
whisper?" asked Donkin with interest, "can't yer speak up?" Jimmy looked
annoyed and said nothing for a while; then in a lifeless, unringing
voice:--"Why should I shout? You ain't deaf that I know."--"Oh! I can 'ear
right enough," answered Donkin in a low tone, and looked down. He was
thinking sadly of going out when Jimmy spoke again.--"Time we did get
home... to get something decent to eat... I am always hungry." Donkin
felt angry all of a sudden.--"What about me," he hissed, "I am 'ungry too
an' got ter work. You, 'ungry!"--"Your work won't kill you," commented
Wait, feebly; "there's a couple of biscuits in the lower bunk there--you
may have one. I can't eat them." Donkin dived in, groped in the corner
and when he came up again his mouth was full. He munched with ardour.
Jimmy seemed to doze with open eyes. Donkin finished his hard bread and
got up.--"You're not going?" asked Jimmy, staring at the ceiling.--"No,"
said Donkin, impulsively, and instead of going out leaned his back
against the closed door. He looked at James Wait, and saw him long,
lean, dried up, as though all his flesh had shrivelled on his bones
in the heat of a white furnace; the meagre fingers of one hand moved
lightly upon the edge of the bunk playing an endless tune. To look