"But when I got you here," said Manners, "and began to work over you, you stopped being Aladdin O'Brien, and were just a man in trouble."
"Yes," said Aladdin, "it must be like that. It's got to be like that."
"At first," said Manners, "I worked because it seemed the proper thing to do, and then I got interested, and then it became terrible to think that you might die."
"Yes," said Aladdin. His face was ghastly in the pre-sunrise light.
"You wouldn't get warm for hours," said Manners, "and I got so tired that I couldn't rub any more, and so I stripped and got into the blankets with you, and tried to keep you as warm as I could that way."
He paused to relight his pipe.
Aladdin stared up at the tattered ceiling with wide, wondering eyes.
"When you got warm," said Manners, "I gave you all the rest of the whisky, and I'm sorry it made you sick, and now you're as fit as a fiddle."
"Fit—as—a—fiddle," said Aladdin,
