’"I suppose you intend to eat and drink and to sleep under shelter in the usual way,” I remember saying with irritation.  “You say you won’t touch the money that is due to you.” . . .  He came as near as his sort can to making a gesture of horror. (There were three weeks and five days’ pay owing him as mate of the Patna.) “Well, that’s too little to matter anyhow; but what will you do to-morrow?  Where will you turn?  You must live . . .”  “That isn’t the thing,” was the comment that escaped him under his breath.  I ignored it, and went on combating what I assumed to be the scruples of an exaggerated delicacy.  “On every conceivable ground,” I concluded, “you must let me help you.”  “You can’t,” he said very simply and gently, and holding fast to some deep idea which I could detect shimmering like a pool of water in the dark, but which I despaired of ever approaching near enough to fathom.  I surveyed his well-proportioned bulk.  “At any rate,” I said, “I am able to help what I can see of you.  I don’t pretend to do more.”  He shook his head sceptically without looking at me.  I got very warm.  “But I can,” I insisted.  “I can do even more.  I am doing more.  I am trusting you . . .”  “The money . . .” he began.  “Upon my word you deserve being told to go to the devil,” I cried, forcing the note of indignation.  He was startled, smiled, and I pressed my attack home.  “It isn’t a question of money at all.  You are too superficial,” I said (and at the same time I was thinking to myself:  Well, here goes!  And perhaps he is, after all).  “Look at the letter I want you to take.  I am writing to a man of whom I’ve never asked a favour, and I am writing about you in terms that one only ventures to use when speaking of an intimate friend.  I make myself unreservedly responsible for you.  That’s what I am doing.  And really if you will only reflect a little what that means . . .”

’He lifted his head.  The rain had passed away; only the water-pipe went on shedding tears with an absurd drip, drip outside the window.  It was very quiet in the room, whose shadows huddled together in corners, away from the still flame of the candle flaring upright in the shape of a dagger; his face after a while seemed suffused by a reflection of a soft light as if the dawn had broken already.

’"Jove!” he gasped out.  “It is noble of you!”

’Had he suddenly put out his tongue at me in derision, I could not have felt more humiliated.  I thought to myself—­Serve me right for a sneaking humbug. . . .  His eyes shone straight into my face, but I perceived it was not a mocking brightness.  All at once he sprang into jerky agitation, like one of those flat wooden figures that are worked by a string.  His arms went up, then came down with a slap.  He became another man altogether.  “And I had never seen,” he shouted; then suddenly bit his lip and frowned.  “What a bally ass I’ve been,” he said very slow in an awed tone. . . .  “You are a brick!” he cried next in a muffled voice.