He even made a bet with Upsher, of a bottle of fruit
salt, that the chief of police would be the one to die.
A few nights later a man, groaning beneath his balcony, disturbed his
slumbers. He cursed the man, and turned his pillow to find the cooler
side. But all through the night the groans, though fainter, broke into
his dreams. At intervals some traditions of past conduct tugged at
Everett's sleeve, and bade him rise and play the good Samaritan. But,
indignantly, he repulsed them. Were there not many others within
hearing? Were there not the police? Was it _his_ place to bind the
wounds of drunken stokers? The groans were probably a trick, to entice
him, unarmed, into the night. And so, just before the dawn, when the
mists rose, and the groans ceased, Everett, still arguing, sank with a
contented sigh into forgetfulness.
When he woke, there was beneath his window much monkey-like chattering,
and he looked down into the white face and glazed eyes of the Italian
doctor, lying in the gutter and staring up at him. Below his
shoulder-blades a pool of blood shone evilly in the blatant sunlight.
Across the street, on his balcony, Upsher, in pajamas and mosquito
boots, was shivering with fever and stifling a yawn.
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