I saw Strickland not infrequently, and now and then played chess with him. He was of uncertain temper. Sometimes he would sit silent and abstracted, taking no notice of anyone; and at others, when he was in a good humour, he would talk in his own halting way. He never said a clever thing, but he had a vein of brutal sarcasm which was not ineffective, and he always said exactly what he thought. He was indifferent to the susceptibilities of others, and when he wounded them was amused. He was constantly offending Dirk Stroeve so bitterly that he flung away, vowing he would never speak to him again; but there was a solid force in Strickland that attracted the fat Dutchman against his will, so that he came back, fawning like a clumsy dog, though he knew that his only greeting would be the blow he dreaded. I do not know why Strickland put up with me. Our relations were peculiar. One day he asked me to lend him fifty francs. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied. “Why not?” “It wouldn’t amuse me.” “I’m frightfully hard up, you know.” “I don’t care.” “You don’t care if I starve?” “Why on earth should I?” I asked in my turn. He looked at me for a minute or two, pulling his untidy beard. I smiled at him. “What are you amused at?” he said, with a gleam of anger in his eyes. “You’re so simple. You recognise no obligations. No one is under any obligation to you.” “Wouldn’t it make you uncomfortable if I went and hanged myself because I’d been turned out of my room as I couldn’t pay the rent?” “Not a bit.” He chuckled. “You’re bragging. If I really did you’d be overwhelmed with remorse.” “Try it, and we’ll see,” I retorted. A smile flickered in his eyes, and he stirred his absinthe in silence. “Would you like to play chess?” I asked. “I don’t mind.” We set up the pieces, and when the board was ready he considered it with a comfortable eye. There is a sense of satisfaction in looking at your men all ready for the fray. “Did you really think I’d lend you money?” I asked. “I didn’t see why you shouldn’t.” “You surprise me.” “Why?” “It’s disappointing to find that at heart you are sentimental. I should have liked you better if you hadn’t made that ingenuous appeal to my sympathies.” “I should have despised you if you’d been moved by it,” he answered. “That’s better,” I laughed. We began to play. We were both absorbed in the game. When it was finished I said to him: “Look here, if you’re hard up, let me see your pictures. If there’s anything I like I’ll buy it.” “Go to hell,” he answered. He got up and was about to go away. I stopped him. “You haven’t paid for your absinthe,” I said, smiling. He cursed me, flung down the money and left. I did not see him for several days after that, but one evening, when I was sitting in the café, reading a paper, he came up and sat beside me. “You haven’t hanged yourself after all,” I remarked.