|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmcip

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wondered whether the light would disclose lying on it a dead body.
Haven't you got a matchyou fool?
Strickland's voicecoming out of the darknessharshlymade me start.
Stroeve cried out.
Ohmy GodI thought you were dead.
XXIV56
I struck a matchand looked about for a candle. I had a rapid glimpse of a tiny apartmenthalf roomhalf
studioin which was nothing but a bedcanvases with their faces to the wallan easela tableand a chair.
There was no carpet on the floor. There was no fire-place. On the tablecrowded with paintspalette-knives
and litter of all kindswas the end of a candle. I lit it. Strickland was lying in the beduncomfortably because
it was too small for himand he had put all his clothes over him for warmth. It was obvious at a glance that he
was in a high fever. Stroevehis voice cracking with emotionwent up to him.
Ohmy poor friendwhat is the matter with you? I had no idea you were ill. Why didn't you let me know?
You must know I'd have done anything in the world for you. Were you thinking of what I said? I didn't mean
it. I was wrong. It was stupid of me to take offence.
Go to hell said Strickland.
Nowbe reasonable. Let me make you comfortable. Haven't you anyone to look yilai：
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On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmept