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'Here,' said the captain, 'you look sick, old man; have a drop of this.'
The champagne creamed and bubbled in the mug; its bright colour, its
lively effervescence, seized his eye. 'It is too late to hesitate,'
he thought; his hand took the mug instinctively; he drank, with
unquenchable pleasure and desire of more; drained the vessel dry, and
set it down with sparkling eyes.
'There is something in life after all!' he cried. 'I had forgot what it
was like. Yes, even this is worth while. Wine, food, dry clothes--why,
they're worth dying, worth hanging, for! Captain, tell me one thing: why
aren't all the poor folk foot-pads?'
'Give it up,' said the captain.
'They must be damned good,' cried Herrick. 'There's something here
beyond me. Think of that calaboose! Suppose we were sent suddenly back.'
He shuddered as though stung by a convulsion, and buried his face in his
clutching hands.
'Here, what's wrong with you?' cried the captain. There was no reply;
only Herrick's shoulders heaved, so that the table was shaken. 'Take
some more of this. Here, drink this. I order you to. Don't start crying
when you're out of the wood.'
'I'm not crying,' said Herrick, raising his face and showing his dry
eyes. 'It's worse than crying. It's the horror of that grave that we've
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