"Conny, old man," said he, "I reckon some men were born to be loved by women, others to be wedded to their work. Down in the jungle is the place where I belong, the region where a man can fight against odds and forget he has a soul."
Coningsby lay with closed eyes. So long did he lay thus, Jerold Wharton commenced to think he were sleeping. Finally he asked softly, "Can a man forget?"
The simple sentence seemed to have a strange effect upon Jerold and he was glad that the eyes of his friend were closed so that he could not see his face. He gripped the arms of his chair, unconsciously, so tightly that his fingers turned white.
"A man can forget," said he, "when he must."
At the moment both were thinking of Olga, but their thoughts were entirely different.
As the weeks rolled on Coningsby showed no improvement. Neither did his condition become any worse. Day after day passed by without apparent change, until at last Jerold Wharton began to have hope. When he approached the Doctor on the subject, the physician gravely shook his head.
"Cases like his always remind me of a lighted match," said he. "Bright for a moment then plunged in darkness, as the flame is quenched by a puff of wind. So will it be with Coningsby. He may live a month, and on the other hand, he may not last through the night."
And Jerold had returned to his rooms, plunged back again into the valley of sadness, all hope dead within him.
