arms, his head against the wall, "you have become _nil_!"

"Blest if I follow you, sir!"

"That, also," said John Steele, "doesn't matter. The principal subject
of any consequence, relating to you, is the steak, which is now coming."
As he spoke, he rose, leaving Dandy Joe alone at the table.

For a time he did not speak; sitting before a cheerless fire, that
feebly attempted to assert itself, he looked once or twice toward the
door, as if mindful to go out and leave the place.

But for an inexplicable reason he did not do so; there was nothing to be
gained here; yet he lingered. Perhaps one of those subtle, illusory
influences we do not yet understand, and which sometimes shape the
blundering finite will, mysteriously, without conscious volition, was at
work. One about to stumble blindly forward, occasionally stops; why, he
knows not.

John Steele continued to regard the dark coals; to divers and sundry
sounds from the table where the other ate, he seemed oblivious. Once
when the proprietor stepped in, he asked, without looking around, for a
certain number of grains of quinine with a glass of water; they probably
kept it at the bar. Yes, the man always had it on hand and brought it
in.

A touch of fever, might he ask, as the visitor took it; nothing to speak
of, was the indifferent answer.

Well, the gentleman should have a care; the gentleman did not reply