He considered this unworthy of an answer and only smiled. Then the smile
died, and again in his eyes I saw distress, infinite weariness, and
fear.
As though his thoughts drove him to seek protection, he came closer.
"I'm 'in bad,' doctor," he said. His voice was frightened, bewildered,
like that of a child. "I can't sleep; nerves all on the loose. I don't
think straight. I hear voices, and no one around. I hear knockings at
the door, and when I open it, no one there. If I don't keep fit I can't
work, and this trip I _got_ to make expenses. You couldn't help me,
could you--couldn't give me something to keep my head straight?"
The need of my keeping his head straight that he might the easier rob
our fellow passengers raised a pretty question of ethics. I meanly
dodged it. I told him professional etiquette required I should leave him
to the ship's surgeon.
"But I don't know _him_," he protested.
Mindful of the use he had made of my name, I objected strenuously:
"Well, you certainly don't know me."
My resentment obviously puzzled him.
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