“The Molteno Reservoir,” I suggested, and Hooper nodded. “That was his limit o’ drift. We walked there an’ we come down through the Gardens—there was a South-Easter blowin’—an’ we finished up by the Docks. Then we bore up the road to Salt River, and wherever there was a pub Vickery put in sweatin’. He didn’t look at what he drunk—he didn’t look at the change. He walked an’ he drunk an’ he perspired in rivers. I understood why old Crocus ’ad come back in the condition ’e did, because Vickery an’ I ’ad two an’ a half hours o’ this gipsy manœuvre an’ when we got back to the station there wasn’t a dry atom on or in me.” “Did he say anything?” Pritchard asked. “The sum total of ’is conversation from 7.45 P.M. till 11.15 P.M. was ‘Let’s have another.’ Thus the mornin’ an’ the evenin’ were the first day, as Scripture says…. To abbreviate a lengthy narrative, I went into Cape Town for five consecutive nights with Master Vickery, and in that time I must ’ave logged about fifty knots over the ground an’ taken in two gallon o’ all the worst spirits south the Equator. The evolution never varied. Two shilling seats for us two; five minutes o’ the pictures, an’ perhaps forty-five seconds o’ Mrs. B. walking down towards us with that blindish look in her eyes an’ the reticule in her hand. Then out walk—and drink till train time.” “What did you think?” said Hooper, his hand fingering his waistcoat pocket. “Several things,” said Pyecroft. “To tell you the truth, I aren’t quite done thinkin’ about it yet. Mad? The man was a dumb lunatic—must ’ave been for months—years p’raps. I know somethin’ o’ maniacs, as every man in the Service must. I’ve been shipmates with a mad skipper—an’ a lunatic Number One, but never both together I thank ’Eaven. I could give you the names o’ three captains now ’oo ought to be in an asylum, but you don’t find me interferin’ with the mentally afflicted till they begin to lay about ’em with rammers an’ winch-handles. Only once I crept up a little into the wind towards Master Vickery. ‘I wonder what she’s doin’ in England,’ I says. ‘Don’t it seem to you she’s lookin’ for somebody?’ That was in the Gardens again, with the South-Easter blowin’ as we were makin’ our desperate round. ‘She’s lookin’ for me,’ he says, stoppin’ dead under a lamp an’ clickin’. When he wasn’t drinkin’, in which case all ’is teeth clicked on the glass, ’e was clickin’ ’is four false teeth like a Marconi ticker. ‘Yes! lookin’ for me,’ he said, an’ he went on very softly an’ as you might say affectionately. ‘_But_, he went on, ‘in future, Mr. Pyecroft, I should take it kindly of you if you’d confine your remarks to the drinks set before you. Otherwise,’ he says, ‘with the best will in the world towards you, I may find myself guilty of murder! Do you understand?’ he says. ‘Perfectly,’ I says, ‘but would it at all soothe you to know that in such a case the chances o’ your being killed are precisely