his ears to roosters. Well, well: it's all in a life-time. But, believe
me, no good poetry, either in verse or in prose, is drunkenman poetry."

With which final remark he shot out of the room. Then Doctor Bainbridge
took his departure, and I retired to sleep and to dream of fiery
craters, with snakes crawling out of them, and gigantic roosters picking
up the snakes one by one and dropping them over a mountain of salt into
a lake of boiling water. I was pleased when morning came, and I heard
the comparatively cheering tinkle from bells on the team of mules
drawing the little "bob-tail" street-car past the hotel.




The ELEVENTH Chapter


On the following evening Bainbridge came to my room as he had promised,
arriving at about eight o'clock. I had not that day accompanied him on
his visit to Peters, who it seems was daily gaining strength. I had
spent my day in reading, except that Arthur had repeatedly come to my
room, remaining for fifteen or twenty minutes at a time as his duties
would permit, being curious to learn from me "some of the things about
that ante-arctic country," etc. He was much interested in the subject,
and studied with close attention the map made by Doctor Bainbridge.
Arthur had asked permission to be present when the doctor should come in
the evening, but I thought better to deny him that privilege. Doctor
Bainbridge was taking the matter seriously, and I knew Arthur too well
to expect from him a decorous reticence at any time. I could imagine the
effect on Bainbridge as he closed some glowing description, should