He couldn't recall mounting to
that high place where he had slept. He wondered if the callous steward
would sometime come to take him down. Perhaps the steward would forget.
The man from Hartford bestirred himself and was presently shaving before
the small glass. Bean looked sullenly down at him. The man was running a
wicked-looking razor perilously about his restless Adam's apple. He was
also lightly humming "The Holy City."
"Watkins," said Bean distinctly, recalling the name that had revealed
the fictitious and Hartford origin of It.
"Adams," said the man, breaking off his song and tightening a leathery
cheek for the razor.
"Adam's apple," said Bean, scornfully. "Watkins!"
The man glanced at him and painfully twisted up a corner of his mouth
while he applied the razor to the other corner. But he did not speak.
"Think there's a doctor on this little old steamer?" demanded Bean.
The man from Hartford laid down his weapon and began to lave his face.
"I believe," he spluttered, "that medical attendance is provided for
those still in mortal error."
"'S'at _so_?" demanded Bean, sullenly.
The man achieved another bar of "The Holy City," and fondly dusted his
face with talcum powder, critically observing the effect.
"If you will go into the silence," he at length said, "and there hold
the thought of the all-good, you will be freed from your delusion."
"Humph!" said Bean and turned his face from the Hartford man.
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