"
"That," said Winston, "is beside the question. What do you want of me?
Money in all probability. Well, you will not get it."
"I'm afraid I'm scarcely fit for a discussion now," said Courthorne.
"The fact is, it hurts me to talk, and there's an aggressiveness about
you which isn't pleasant to a badly-shaken man. Wait until this
evening, but there is no necessity for you to ride to the outpost
before you have heard me."
"I'm not sure it would be advisable to leave you here," said Winston
dryly.
Courthorne smiled ironically. "Use your eyes. Would any one expect me
to get up and indulge in a fresh folly? Leave me a little brandy--I
need it--and go about your work. You'll certainly find me here when
you want me."
Winston, glancing at the man's face, considered this very probable, and
went out. He found his cook, who could be trusted, and said to him,
"The man yonder is tolerably sick, and you'll let him have a little
brandy and something to eat when he asks for it. Still, you'll bring
the decanter away with you, and lock him in whenever you go out."
The man nodded, and making a hasty breakfast, Winston, who had business
at several outlying farms, mounted and rode away. It was evening
before he returned, and found Courthorne lying in a big chair with a
cigar in his hand, languidly debonair but apparently ill. His face was
curiously pallid, and his eyes dimmer than they had been, but there was
a sardonic twinkle in them.
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