Caradoc's language and manners showed him to be a man of breeding, but
he was full of contradictory habits. His uncosmopolitan moodiness, his
vulgar quarreling over cards, were typical instances.
Leonard almost regretted that he had formed an uncomfortable intimacy
with the fellow, but he could not very well break it off now since Smith
had saved him from a fall that might easily have proved fatal.
Just then the Englishman entered the cabin silently. He lighted the
bracket lamp quietly and looked about to satisfy himself that his mate
was asleep. Later Madden heard him open his big kit bag and take
something out. A moment after, the odor of alcohol scented the little
cabin.
Leonard lifted his head and saw the fellow under the lamp, just lifting
the silver cap to his lips. A disagreeable smile moulded the long face,
wrinkled the nostrils and slid away under the choppy blond mustache. The
strong light from the overhead lamp brought out an almost sinister
countenance.
The thought that such a man had probably saved his life filled Madden
with a kind of repulsion. He turned in his bunk with a little disgusted
grunt.
Caradoc dropped the little cap and came to the bunk.
"Side hurt, old man?" he asked anxiously.
"Yes--no--nothing the matter."
"Oh, maybe you don't like this odor--forgot you didn't drink.
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