Night is the only reality of the sick-bed; the day
is only a long evening, a waiting for the utter dark. The doctor's
little square satchel of instruments, vials, and bandages lay open on
the table; he had changed the apartment as utterly as he had changed his
face by putting on great, horn-rimmed spectacles. They gave an owl-like
look to him, an air of omniscience. It seemed as if no mortal ailment
could persist in the face of such wisdom.
"Well?" whispered Drew.
"You can speak out, but not loudly," said the doctor calmly. "He's
delirious; the fever is getting its hold."
"What do you think?"
"Nothing. The time hasn't come for thinking."
He bent his emotionless eye closer on the big rancher.
"You," he said, "ought to be in bed this moment."
Drew waved the suggestion aside.
"Let me give you a sedative," added Young.
"Nonsense. I'm going to stay here."
The doctor gave up the effort; dismissed Drew from his mind, and focused
his glance on the patient once more. Calamity Ben was moving his head
restlessly from side to side, keeping up a gibbering mutter.
Pages:
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332