He climbed, or rolled, upon the billiard-table, turned head toward punkah, and suddenly lay still,—­a gross white figure, collapsed and sprawling.

“How much does he think a man can stand?” snapped Nesbit, his lean Cockney face pulled in savage lines.  “Beast of a song!  He’ll die to-night, drinking.”

“Die yourself,” mumbled the singer, “‘m goin’ sleep.  More ’n you can do.”

A groan from the players, and the vicious flip of a card, acknowledged the hit.  Rudolph joined them, ungreeting and ungreeted.  The game went on grimly, with now and then the tinkle of ice, or the popping of soda bottles.  Sharp cords and flaccid folds in Wutzler’s neck, Chantel’s brown cheeks, the point of Heywood’s resolute chin, shone wet and polished in the lamplight.  All four men scowled pugnaciously, even the pale Nesbit, who was winning.  Bad temper filled the air, as palpable as the heat and stink of the burning oil.

Only Heywood maintained a febrile gayety, interrupting the game perversely, stirring old Wutzler to incoherent speech.

“What’s that about Rome?” he asked.  “You were saying?”

“Rome is safed!” cried the outcast, with sudden enthusiasm.  “In your paper Tit-bit, I read.  How dey climb der walls op, yes, but Rome is safed by a flook of geeze.  Gracious me, der History iss great sopjeck!  I lern moch.—­But iss Rome yet a fortify town?”

Chantel rapped out a Parisian oath.

“Do we play cards,” he cried sourly, “or listen to the chatter of senility?”

Heywood held to the previous question.

“No, Wutz, that town’s no longer fortified,” he answered slowly.  “Geese live there, still, as in—­many other places.”

Dr. Chantel examined his finger-tips as though for some defect; then, snatching up the cards, shuffled and dealt with intense precision.  The game went on as before.

“I read alzo,” stammered Wutzler, like a timid scholar encouraged to lecture, “I read zo how your Englishman, Rawf Ralli, he spreadt der fine clock for your Queen, and lern your Queen smoking, no?” He mopped his lean throat with the back of his hand.  “In Bengal are dere Rallis.  Dey handle jute.”

“Yes?” Heywood smiled a weary indulgence.  Next instant he whirled on Rudolph in fury.—­“Is this a game, or Idiot’s Joy?”

“I’m playing my best,” explained Rudolph, sulkily.

“Then your best is the worst I ever saw!  Better learn, before sitting in!”

Chantel laughed, without merriment; Rudolph flung down his cards, stalked to the window, and stood looking out, in lonely, impotent rage.  A long time passed, marked by alarming snores from the billiard-table.  The half-naked watchers played on, in ferocious silence.  The night wore along without relief.

Hours might have lapsed, when Dr. Chantel broke out as though the talk had but paused a moment.

“So it goes!” he sneered.  “Fools will always sit in, when they do not know.  They rush into the water, also, and play the hero!”