“Nonsense, Adler,” returned Bennett; “stay, if you like.  I presume I can find use for you.  But you must be paid, of course.”

“Not a soomarkee,” protested the other almost indignantly.

The next day Adler brought his chest down from the City and took up his quarters with Bennett at Medford.  Though Dr. Pitts had long since ceased to keep horses, the stable still adjoined the house, and Adler swung his hammock in the coachman’s old room.  Bennett could not induce him to room in the house itself.  Adler prided himself that he knew his place.  After their first evening’s conversation he never spoke to Bennett until spoken to first, and the resumed relationship of commander and subordinate was inexpressibly dear to him.  It was something to see Adler waiting on the table in the “glass-room” in his blue jersey, standing at attention at the door, happy in the mere sight of Bennett at his meals.  In the mornings, as soon as breakfast was ready, it was Adler’s privilege to announce the fact to Bennett, whom he usually found already at work upon his writing.  Returning thence to the dining-room, Adler waited for his lord to appear.  As soon as he heard Bennett’s step in the hall a little tremor of excitement possessed him.  He ran to Bennett’s chair, drawing it back for him, and as soon as Bennett had seated himself circled about him with all the pride and solicitude of a motherly hen.  He opened his napkin for him, delivered him his paper, and pushed his cup of coffee a half-inch nearer his hand.  Throughout the duration of the meal he hardly took his eyes from Bennett’s face, watching his every movement with a glow of pride, his hands gently stroking one another in an excess of satisfaction and silent enjoyment.

The days passed; soon a fortnight was gone by.  Drearily, mechanically, Bennett had begun work upon his book, the narrative of the expedition.  It was repugnant to him.  Long since he had lost all interest in polar exploration.  As he had said to Adler, he was out of it, finally and irrevocably.  His bolt was shot; his role upon the stage of the world was ended.  He only desired now to be forgotten as quickly as possible, to lapse into mediocrity as easily and quietly as he could.  Fame was nothing to him now.  The thundering applause of an entire world that had once been his was mere noise, empty and meaningless.  He did not care to reawaken it.  The appearance of his book he knew was expected and waited for in every civilised nation of the globe.  It would be printed in languages whereof he was ignorant, but it was all one with him now.