There was another roar in Gerald's ears besides the roar of the wind.

He had never fainted in his life, but the feeling was upon him now--a deadly sickness, a swaying of the earth.
The porter suddenly gave a little cry.
"If I'm not a born idiot!" he exclaimed, drawing a bottle from the pocket of his coat with his disengaged hand.

"There's whisky here.

I was taking it home to the missis for her rheumatism.

Now, then." He drew the cork from the bottle with his teeth and forced some of the liquid between the lips of the young man.