Much as he had loved Hughie
Drummond, his death, and the funeral it entailed, seemed an intolerable
burden to add to what he was already sinking under. He had a
feeling--nay, it was a certitude--that all he had to do was to shut his
eyes and let go, and that he would die, sink into immensity of rest. He
knew it; it was very simple. All he had to do was close his eyes and let
go; for he had reached the stage where he lived by will alone. His weary
body seemed torn by the oncoming pangs of dissolution. He was a fool to
hang on. He had died a score of deaths already, and what was the use of
prolonging it to two-score deaths before he really died. Not only was he
not afraid to die, but he desired to die. His weary flesh and weary
spirit desired it, and why should the flame of him not go utterly out?
But his mind that could will life or death, still pulsed on. He saw the
two whale-boats land on the beach, and the sick, on stretchers or pick-a-
back, groaning and wailing, go by in lugubrious procession. He saw the
wind making on the clouded horizon, and thought of the sick in the
hospital. Here was something waiting his hand to be done, and it was not
in his nature to lie down and sleep, or die, when any task remained
undone.
The boss-boys were called and given their orders to rope down the
hospital with its two additions.
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