I sought to revenge myself on him by telling him to help himself to a
cigar, having first placed the box of Mexicans near him. He invariably
declined them, and said he would take one of the others from the tea-box
--my very best, kept in tea for sake of dryness. If I reversed the
process he reversed his action. His instinct regarding cigars was
supernatural, and I almost believe that he had--like the Black Dwarf's
cat--the "poo'er" of reading character and interpreting events--an uncanny
divination.

I knew by the time we reached Valetta that Roscoe would get well; but he
recognised none of us until we arrived at Gibraltar. Justine Caron and
myself had been watching beside him. As the bells clanged to "slow down"
on entering the harbour, his eyes opened with a gaze of sanity and
consciousness. He looked at me, then at Justine.

"I have been ill?" he said.

Justine's eyes were not entirely to be trusted. She turned her head
away.

"Yes, you have been very ill," I replied, "but you are better."

He smiled feebly, adding: "At least, I am grateful that I did not die at
sea." Then he closed his eyes. After a moment he opened them, and said,
looking at Justine: "You have helped to nurse me, have you not?" His
wasted fingers moved over the counterpane towards her.

"I could do so little," she murmured.

"You have more than paid your debt to me," he gently replied. "For I