CHAPTER X.
Tom o' the Gleam,--Tom, with his clothes torn and covered with dust,--Tom, changed suddenly to a haggard and terrible unlikeness of himself, his face drawn and withered, its healthy bronze colour whitened to a sickly livid hue,--Tom, with such an expression of dazed and stupid horror in his eyes as to give the impression that he was heavily in drink, and dangerous.
"Well, mates!" he said thickly--"A fine night and a clear moon!" No one answered him.

He staggered up to the bar.

The hostess looked at him severely.
"Now, Tom, what's the matter ?" she said.
He straightened himself, and, throwing back his shoulders as though parrying a blow, forced a smile.
"Nothing! A touch of the sun!" A strong shudder ran through his limbs, and his teeth chattered,--then suddenly leaning forward on the counter, he whispered: "I'm not drunk, mother!--for God's sake don't think it!--I'm ill.

Don't you see I'm ill ?--I'll be all right in a minute,--give me a drop of brandy!" She fixed her candid gaze full upon him.

She had known him well for years, and not only did she know him, but, rough character as he was, she liked and respected him.