During the more comfortable moments he spoke quite in the old way, and time and again made an effort to read, and reached for his pipe or a cigar which lay in the little berth hammock at his side.  I held the match, and he would take a puff or two with satisfaction.  Then the peace of it would bring drowsiness, and while I supported him there would come a few moments, perhaps, of precious sleep.  Only a few moments, for the devil of suffocation was always lying in wait to bring him back for fresh tortures.  Over and over again this was repeated, varied by him being steadied on his feet or sitting on the couch opposite the berth.  In spite of his suffering, two dominant characteristics remained—­the sense of humor, and tender consideration for another.

Once when the ship rolled and his hat fell from the hook, and made the circuit of the cabin floor, he said: 

“The ship is passing the hat.”

Again he said: 

“I am sorry for you, Paine, but I can’t help it—­I can’t hurry this dying business.  Can’t you give me enough of the hypnotic injunction to put an end to me?”

He thought if I could arrange the pillows so he could sit straight up it would not be necessary to support him, and then I could sit on the couch and read while he tried to doze.  He wanted me to read Jude, he said, so we could talk about it.  I got all the pillows I could and built them up around him, and sat down with the book, and this seemed to give him contentment.  He would doze off a little and then come up with a start, his piercing, agate eyes searching me out to see if I was still there.  Over and over—­twenty times in an hour—­this was repeated.  When I could deny him no longer I administered the opiate, but it never completely possessed him or gave him entire relief.

As I looked at him there, so reduced in his estate, I could not but remember all the labor of his years, and all the splendid honor which the world had paid to him.  Something of this may have entered his mind, too, for once, when I offered him some of the milder remedies which we had brought, he said: 

“After forty years of public effort I have become just a target for medicines.”

The program of change from berth to the floor, from floor to the couch, from the couch back to the berth among the pillows, was repeated again and again, he always thinking of the trouble he might be making, rarely uttering any complaint; but once he said: 

“I never guessed that I was not going to outlive John Bigelow.”  And again: 

“This is such a mysterious disease.  If we only had a bill of particulars we’d have something to swear at.”

Time and again he picked up Carlyle or the Cardigan Memoirs, and read, or seemed to read, a few lines; but then the drowsiness would come and the book would fall.  Time and again he attempted to smoke, or in his drowse simulated the motion of placing a cigar to his lips and puffing in the old way.