And Keith, listening to the moaning of the
wind and the crackling of the fire, found himself repeating over and
over again, "What was it he wanted to say?"
In a lull in the wind Conniston's watch seemed to beat like a heart in
its case, and swiftly its tick, tick, ticked to his ears an answer,
"Come back, come back, come back!"
With a cry at his own pitiable weakness, Keith thrust the thing far
under his sleeping-bag, and there its sound was smothered. At last
sleep overcame him like a restless anesthesia.
With the break of another day he came out of his tent and stirred the
fire. There were still bits of burning ember, and these he fanned into
life and added to their flame fresh fuel. He could not easily forget
last night's torture, but its significance was gone. He laughed at his
own folly and wondered what Conniston himself would have thought of his
nervousness. For the first time in years he thought of the old days
down at college where, among other things, he had made a mark for
himself in psychology. He had considered himself an expert in the
discussion and understanding of phenomena of the mind. Afterward he had
lived up to the mark and had profited by his beliefs, and the fact that
a simple relaxation of his mental machinery had so disturbed him last
night amused him now.
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