"Which way?" he asked breathlessly.
Caradoc looked around at him in uncomprehending misery. There was just
room for the two in the barrel. Smith seemed to put his mind to Madden's
question with an effort.
"Which--what did you say?"
"Which way?"
"What do you mean?"
"The dragons, man, the dragons!"
"Dragons--right here!" Smith beat his broad chest, then waved his long
arms about. "Everywhere--don't you smell it?"
The idea of smelling dragons confused the American. "Smell what?"
"The whiskey!" shivered Caradoc. "I came up here to get away from it."
"Oh--so you didn't see--I understand!"
"It's tantalizing--horrible!" he shivered again, as if the superheated
air chilled him.
The American's own foolish fancies vanished in the face of his friend's
real trouble. Caradoc had met a dragon more terrible than the Sargasso
could conjure up, and its fangs were in his heart. His flight to the
crow's nest had been an effort to escape its fury, but it had followed
him there. Leonard put a hand on his friend's shoulder. He was at a loss
what to say. Indeed there was nothing to say.
"Habit--queer thing, Leonard--I thought I was all right."
"Yes?"
"You see, in college I used to take an alcohol rub-down after my bouts,
and a drink. And now, after my fight at noon--smelling this--you don't
know how it brings it back, appetite, recollections, everything----" he
waved his hands hopelessly again.
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