"Did--did I drown him?" says he. "You made an elegant try," says I; "but there wasn't water enough." "Thank goodness!" says he. "Now I can die calmly." "What's the use dyin'?" says I. "Ain't there no thin' else left to do but that?" "I've got to," says he. "I can't live on that cursed stuff they've been giving me, and if I eat anything else I'm done for. The specialist said so." "Oh, well," says I, "maybe he's made a wrong guess. It's your turn now. Suppose you come in and let me have Mother Whaley broil you a nice juicy hunk of steak?" Say, he was near starved. I could tell that by the way he looked when I mentioned broiled steak. He shook his head, though. "If I did, I'd die before morning," says he. "I'll bet you a dollar you wouldn't," says I. That almost gets a grin out of him. "Shorty," says he, "I'm going to risk it." "It's better'n starving to death," says I. And he sure did eat like a hungry man. When he'd put away a good square meal, includin' a dish of sliced raw onions and two cups of hot tea, I plants him in an arm chair and shoves out the cigar box. He looks at the Fumadoras regretful. "They've kept those locked away from me for two weeks," says he, "and that was worse than going without food." "Smoke up, then," says I. "There's one due you." "As it will probably be my last, I guess I will," says he. Honest, the old gent was so sure he'd croak before mornin' that he wanted to write some farewell letters, but he was too done up for that. I tucked him into a spare bed, opened all the windows, and before I could turn out the light he was sawin' wood like a hired man. He was still workin' the fog horn when I went in to rout him out at five o'clock. It was a tough job gettin' him up, but I got him out of his trance at last. "Come on," says I, "we've got to do our three miles and have a rub-down before breakfast." First off he swore he couldn't move, and I guess he was some stiff from his sprint the day before, but by the time he'd got out where the birds was singin', and the trees and grass looked like they'd been done over new durin' the night, I was able to coax him into a dog-trot. It was a gentle little stunt we did, but it limbered the old boy up, and after we'd had a cold shower and a quick rub he forgot all about his joints. "Well, are you set on keepin' that date in the obituary column, or will we have breakfast?" says I. "I could eat cold lobscouse," says he. "Mother Whaley's got somethin' better'n that in the kitchen," says I. "I suppose this will finish me," says he, tacklin' the eggs and corn muffins. Now, wouldn't that give you the pip? Why, with their specialists and medicated dope, they'd got the old chap so leery of good straight grub that he was bein' starved to death. And even after I'd got him braced up into something like condition, he didn't think it was hardly right to go on eatin'. "I expect I ought to go back and start in on that slop diet again," says he.