does that matter?” I said. I simply couldn’t follow his reasoning.
Sippy stood for a moment in thought.
“I believe you’re absolutely right,” he said at last.
“Funny I never thought of it before. You really recommend me to get that helmet?”
“I do indeed.”
“Then I will,” said Sippy, brightening up in the most remarkable manner.
So there you have the posish, and you can see why, as I left the dock, a free man, remorse gnawed at my vitals. In his twenty-fifth year, with life opening out before him and all that sort of thing, Oliver Randolph Sipperley had become a jailbird, and it was all my fault. It was I who had dragged that fine spirit