But what struck me most, as it struck us all, was the limp exhaustion of
his body compared to the strength of his utterance and the tearing rush
of his words. A vigorous driving-power was there at work, forcing out
the tale, red-hot and throbbing, full of discrepancies and the strangest
contradictions; and the nature of this driving-power I first began to
appreciate when they had lifted him into the circle of firelight and I
saw his face, grey under the tan, terror in the eyes, tears too, hair
and beard awry, and listened to the wild stream of words pouring forth
without ceasing.
I think we all understood then, but it was only after many years that
anyone dared to confess what he thought.
There was Matt Morris, my guide; Silver Fizz, whose real name was
unknown, and who bore the title of his favourite drink; and huge Hank
Milligan--all ears and kind intention; and there was Rushton, pouring
out his ready-made tale, with ever-shifting eyes, turning from face to
face, seeking confirmation of details none had witnessed but
himself--and _one other_.
Silver Fizz was the first to recover from the shock of the thing, and to
realise, with the natural sense of chivalry common to most genuine
back-woodsmen, that the man was at a terrible disadvantage.
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