An Evil Eye

140

“ I — don’t-think I-can take much-more-of this,” the young man gasped. A wavelet slapped his face and he swallowed another spoonful of the Bosphorus.

“Think of Byron-Compston-old man.”

“Byron did it-in summer.” The acting third secretary at the British embassy kicked out with both legs; but his energy was waning. His lips were blue. Compston could hardly remember why he was here, slowly freezing to death in the gelid waters of the Bosphorus.

“Damn-that wretched-Esterhazy.”

Compston could not have believed he could ever be so cold. Before they waded into the water, he and Fizerly had smeared themselves in a liberal coating of mutton fat until Fizerly said they looked like prize porkers from his father’s model farm. For the first hundred yards or so, the fat had done the trick.

“Damn-that-blasted bridge!” Fizerly glanced around. In the dusk, he could see only the glowing disk of Compston’s face in the water. “Keep-going, Compston. Old man? Compston?”