Page:Arthur Stringer - Gun Runner.djvu/230

 He pulled himself together, with an effort, and coerced his attention on the instruments before him. The thing was not over, he doggedly maintained; he still had his fighting-chance.

His watch above the responder was interrupted by a peremptory rattle of his cabin door. He was, at Alicia's suggestion, keeping his wireless station under lock and key, though it had long since slipped his mind that he had locked himself in. He opened his door, guardedly, and was both relieved and disconcerted to see the figure of Captain Yandel swaying there.

"What're you picking up?" demanded the captain, thickly. His face was an almost apoplectic red, and a heavy odour of brandy drifted into the close little cabin. Yet the squat, wide-shouldered figure stood erect and steady enough on the ludicrously short and wide-planted legs. McKinnon wondered how many years he would last, in such a climate. Then he marvelled at the thought of how slowly men were able to kill themselves; the sheer pertinacity of life amazed him, as he peered up at the hulk before him, and in some way knew that it would drag on and on through its sottish years, that the overheated blood and the hardening arteries and the long-abused body would clamour for