"They won't want us for half an hour." When we came in, the room had been set in order, the tea-kettle was singing, the bedclothes straightened out, and Moore had just finished washing the blood stains from Bruce's arms and neck.
"Just in time," he said.

"I didn't like to tackle these," pointing to the bandages.
All night long Moore soothed and tended the sick man, now singing softly to him, and again beguiling him with tales that meant nothing, but that had a strange power to quiet the nervous restlessness, due partly to the pain of the wounded arm and partly to the nerve-wrecking from his months of dissipation.

The Duke seemed uncomfortable enough.

He spoke to Bruce once or twice, but the only answer was a groan or curse with an increase of restlessness.
"He'll have a close squeak," said The Duke.

The carelessness of the tone was a little overdone, but The Pilot was stirred up by it.
"He has not been fortunate in his friends," he said, looking straight into his eyes.
"A man ought to know himself when the pace is too swift," said The Duke, a little more quickly than was his wont.
"You might have done anything with him.