"My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. Selfishness. In passing, why do we fear death? For our sins? Rather, isn't it the tremendous inherent human curiosity to know what is going to happen to-morrow that causes us to wince at the thought of annihilation? A subconscious resentment against the idea of entering darkness while our neighbour will proceed with his petty affairs as usual? "It's nip and tuck," said the doctor; "but we'll pull him through. I suspect he has been at work upon those he has on. In a sense it alters nothing. I know London better than you, and I have had to earn my own living. I’ve—dreads.
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