Tell him about the island, the coconut dance, the wooden tom-toms; read to him. The office is a sight—not one sheet of paper on another; bills and receipts everywhere. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. Completely overcome by fatigue, with strained muscles, and bruised hands; streaming with perspiration, and with lips so parched that he would gladly have parted with a treasure if he had possessed it for a draught of water; he sank against the wall, and while in this state was seized with, a sudden and strange alarm. I had no idea. The latch came with a weak click.
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