to place, wherever he wishes to go, but—” there was a scarcely noticeable pause—“he can't come back to England any more.”
“O-o-h!” dragged out Madden in a low voice, comprehending the man before him for the first time.
“So they are called remittance men—always remitted to.” Caradoc's long fever-worn face, that was filling out in convalescence, colored momentarily.
“So that's what you were,” said the American after a pause; “a remittance man, simply drifting over the face of the earth, supported by your family, boozing your life away, and always longing to see England again?”
“You can put things so raw, Madden,” responded Caradoc with a ghost of a smile. “I am, not were.”
“Were,” insisted the American quickly. “Before your collapse you were a confirmed alcoholic, but you are slightly different now. Your eight days of fever, when Hogan and I had to hold you in bed, must have burned you out, cleaned up your whole system. You are nearer normal now than you were. You have
