steadily dwindled in power, the stream of his life choked with
stagnant scum of good fortune. Indeed, he grew so dull that Helen
Starratt, stifling a yawn, said:

"If it's not too personal ... won't you please tell us ... about ...
about the man you killed for smashing your thumb?"

He laughed with charming naivete, and began at once. But it was all
disappointingly simple. It had happened aboard ship. A hulking Finn,
one of the crew's bullies, had accused Hilmer of stealing his tobacco.
A scuffle followed, blows, blood drawn. Upon the slippery deck Hilmer
had fallen prone in an attempt to place a swinging blow. The Finn had
seized this opportunity and flung a bit of pig iron upon Hilmer's
sprawling right hand. Hilmer had leaped to his feet at once and,
seizing the bar of iron in his dripping fingers, had crushed the
bully's head with one sure, swift blow.

"He fell face downward ... his head split open like a rotten melon."

Helen Starratt shuddered. "How ... how perfectly fascinating!" escaped
her.

Starratt stared. He had never seen his wife so kindled with morbid
excitement.

"I ... I thought you didn't like to hear unpleasant stories," he threw
at her, disagreeably.

She tossed the flaming cushion, upon which she had been leaning, into
a corner, a certain insolence in her quick gesture.