It's some
sort of curse. There's always a bill or two to meet."
He plunged his hand into his pocket for the famous notebook so well
known in the islands, the fetish of his hopes, and fluttered the pages
feverishly.
"And yet--look," he went on. "There it is--more than five thousand
dollars owing. Surely that's something."
He ceased suddenly. Heyst, who had been all the time trying to look
as unconcerned as he could, made reassuring noises in his throat.
But Morrison was not only honest. He was honourable, too; and on this
stressful day, before this amazing emissary of Providence and in the
revulsion of his feelings, he made his great renunciation. He cast off
the abiding illusion of his existence.
"No. No. They are not good. I'll never be able to squeeze them. Never.
I've been saying for years I would, but I give it up. I never really
believed I could. Don't reckon on that, Heyst. I have robbed you."
Poor Morrison actually laid his head on the cabin table, and remained
in that crushed attitude while Heyst talked to him soothingly with the
utmost courtesy. The Swede was as much distressed as Morrison; for he
understood the other's feelings perfectly. No decent feeling was ever
scorned by Heyst. But he was incapable of outward cordiality of manner,
and he felt acutely his defect. Consummate politeness is not the right
tonic for an emotional collapse.
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