“It is clear that he cannot stay here if he is to be seriously ill,” the Wanderer said.

“And it is equally clear that he cannot be taken away,” retorted Keyork.

“You seem to be in a very combative frame of mind,” the other answered, sitting down and looking at his watch.  “If you cannot revive him, he ought to be brought to more comfortable quarters for the night.”

“In his present condition—­of course,” said Keyork with a sneer.

“Do you think he would be in danger on the way?”

“I never think—­I know,” snarled the sage.

The Wanderer showed a slight surprise at the roughness of the answer, but said nothing, contenting himself with watching the proceedings keenly.  He was by no means past suspecting that Keyork might apply some medicine the very reverse of reviving, if left to himself.  For the present there seemed to be no danger.  The pungent smell of salts of ammonia pervaded the place; but the Wanderer knew that Keyork had a bottle of ether in the pocket of his coat, and he rightly judged that a very little of that would put an end to the life that was hanging in the balance.  Nearly half an hour passed before either spoke again.  Then Keyork looked up.  This time his voice was smooth and persuasive.  His irritability had all disappeared.

“You must be tired,” he said.  “Why do you not go home?  Or else go to my house and wait for us.  The Individual and I can take care of him very well.”

“Thanks,” replied the Wanderer with a slight smile.  “I am not in the least tired, and I prefer to stay where I am.  I am not hindering you, I believe.”

Now Keyork Arabian had no interest in allowing Israel Kafka to die, though the Wanderer half believed that he had, though he could not imagine what that interest might be.  The little man was in reality on the track of an experiment, and he knew very well that so long as he was so narrowly watched it would be quite impossible to try it.  In spite of his sneers at his companion’s ignorance, he was aware that the latter knew enough to make every effort conducive to reviving the patient if left to himself, and he submitted with a bad grace to doing what he would rather have left undone.

He would have wished to let the flame of life sink yet lower before making it brighten again, for he had with him a preparation which he had been carrying in his pocket for months in the hope of accidentally happening upon just such a case as the present, and he longed for an opportunity of trying it.  But to give it a fair trial he wished to apply it at the precise point when, according to all previous experience, the moment of death was past—­the moment when the physician usually puts his watch in his pocket and looks about for his hat.  Possibly if Kafka, being left without any assistance, had shown no further signs of sinking, Keyork would have helped him to sink a little lower.  To produce this much-desired result, he had nothing with him but the ether, of which the Wanderer of course knew the smell and understood the effects.  He saw the chances of making the experiment upon an excellent subject slipping away before his eyes and he grew more angry in proportion as they seemed farther removed.