You'll certainly find me here when you want me." Winston, glancing at the man's face, considered this very probable, and went out.

He found his cook, who could be trusted, and said to him, "The man yonder is tolerably sick, and you'll let him have a little brandy and something to eat when he asks for it.

Still, you'll bring the decanter away with you, and lock him in whenever you go out." The man nodded, and making a hasty breakfast, Winston, who had business at several outlying farms, mounted and rode away.

It was evening before he returned, and found Courthorne lying in a big chair with a cigar in his hand, languidly debonair but apparently ill.

His face was curiously pallid, and his eyes dimmer than they had been, but there was a sardonic twinkle in them.
"You take a look at the decanter," said the man, who went up with Winston, carrying a lamp.