"You don’t understand," he repeated. "You simply don’t understand. No, I shall go to the dinner. But of course I’m—I’m nervous—a little. Did I say I was scared? I didn’t mean that. Oh, I’m all right; I just want you to prescribe for me, something for the nerves. Henry, death is a terrible thing,—to see ’em all struck down, twenty-nine of ’em—splendid boys. Henry, I’m not a coward. There’s a difference between cowardice and fear. For hours last night I was trying to work it out. Cowardice—that’s just turning tail and running; but I shall go through that Annual Dinner, and that’s ordeal enough, believe me. But fear,—it’s just death in the abstract that unmans me. _That’s_ the thing to fear. To think that we all go along living and working and fussing from day to day, when we _know_ that this great Monster, this Horror, is walking up and down the streets, and that sooner or later he’ll catch us,—that we can’t escape. Isn’t it the greatest curse in the world! We’re so used to it we don’t realise the Thing. But suppose one could eliminate the Monster altogether. _Then_ we’d realise how sweet life was, and we’d look back at the old days with horror—just as I do now." "Oh, but this is rubbish," cried the doctor, "simple drivel. Manning, I’m ashamed of you. I’ll prescribe for you, I suppose I’ve got to. But a good rough fishing-and-hunting-trip would do more for you than a gallon of drugs. If you won’t go to Florida, get out of town, if it’s only over Sunday. Here’s your prescription, and _do_ take a Friday-to-Monday trip. Tramp in the woods, get tired, and _don’t go to that dinner_!" "You don’t understand," repeated Verrill, as the two stood up. He put the prescription into his pocket-book. "You don’t understand. I couldn’t keep away. It’s a duty, and besides—well I couldn’t make you see. Good-by. This stuff will make me sleep, eh? And do my nerves good, too, you say? I see. I’ll come back to you if it don’t work. Good-by again. _This_ door, is it? Not through the waiting-room, eh? Yes, I remember.... Henry, did you ever—did you ever face death yourself—I mean—" "Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense," cried the doctor. But Verrill persisted. His back to the closed door, he continued: "_I_ did. _I_ faced death once,—so you see I should know. It was when I was a lad of twenty. My father had a line of New Orleans packets and I often used to make the trip as super-cargo. One October day we were caught in the equinox off Hatteras, and before we knew it we were wondering if she would last another half-hour. Along in the afternoon there came a sea aboard, and caught me unawares. I lost my hold and felt myself going, going.... I was sure for ten seconds that it was the end,—_and I saw death then, face to face_!