The reporter was anything but cheerful company, for, believing
firmly in the steady progress of his malady, he was weighed down
by the deepest melancholy. The fellow was a veritable cave of
despair; he voiced never-ceasing complaints; nothing suited him;
and but for something likable in the man--an effect due in part to
the fact that his chronic irritation took amusing forms--he would
have been an intolerable bore. To cheer him up was quite
impossible, and although it seemed to Johnnie that the Cuban
climate agreed with him and that he lacked only strength of will
to cheat the grave, the mere suggestion of such a thought was
offensive to the invalid. He construed every optimistic word,
every effort at encouragement, either as a reflection upon his
sincerity or as the indication of a heartless indifference to his
sufferings. He continued to talk wistfully about joining the
Insurrectos, and O'Reilly would have been glad to put him in the
way of realizing his fantastic ambition to "taste the salt of
life" had it been in his power; but, since he himself depended
upon friends unknown to him, he did not dare to risk complicating
matters. In fact, he did not even tell Branch of his coming
adventure.
The day of days dawned at last, and Johnnie was early at Manin's
soda-fountain, drinking insipid beverages and anxiously watching
the street.
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