"Come, come!" I commanded.
His face brightened, though with an intention most obviously false. He
coughed--a cough of pure deception. Not only were his eyes averted
from mine, but they were glassed to an uncanny degree. The fingers
wrought piteously at the now plastic roll.
"My word, the chap was taken bad; had to be seen to, what! Revived, I
mean to say. All piano Johnnies that way--nervous wrecks, what!
Spells! Spells, man--spells!"
"Come, come!" I said crisply. The glassed eyes were those of one
hypnotized.
"In the carriage--to the hyphen chap's place, to be sure. Fainting
spell--weak heart, what! No stimulants about. Passing house! Perhaps
have stimulants--heart tablets, er--beer--things of that sort. Lead
him in. Revive him. Quite well presently, but not well enough to go
on. Couldn't let a piano Johnny die on our hands, what! Inquest,
evidence, witnesses--all that silly rot. Save his life, what! Presence
of mind! Kind hearts, what! Humanity! Do as much for any chap. Not let
him die like a dog in the gutter, what! Get no credit, though----" His
curiously mechanical utterance trailed off to be lost in a mere husky
murmur. The glassy stare was still at my wall.
I have in the course of my eventful career had occasion to mark the
varying degrees of plausibility with which men speak untruths, but
never, I confidently aver, have I beheld one lie with so piteous a
futility.
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