"I _am_, not _were_."
"_Were_," insisted the American quickly. "Before your collapse you
were a confirmed alcoholic, but you are slightly different now. Your
eight days of fever, when Hogan and I had to hold you in bed, must have
burned you out, cleaned up your whole system. You are nearer normal now
than you were. You have a fresh start. It's up to you what you do with
it."
The Englishman looked at his friend with a sort of slow surprise on his
face. "I hadn't noticed it, but I don't believe I do crave drink as
keenly."
"No, sickness is often not so bad a thing as folks think. It is nature's
way of putting us right. Sometimes," he added thoughtfully, "we crumple
up in the process, but we can hardly blame the old lady for that."
"You're an odd fellow, Madden," laughed Caradoc, getting slowly out of
his chair and stretching his arms. "Well, for some reason or other, I
feel fine this morning--let's take a constitutional around the dock."
The young men walked off, side by side, and began the circuit of the
dock's quarter-mile outline. The breeze was such a rarity in the
becalmed region that the two paused now and then to take long grateful
breaths, and to watch the little wind waves ripple the glassy Sargasso
lanes.
As they walked, navvies came out with buckets brushes and set to work
painting the maze of iron stanchions that lined the long interior of the
dock.
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