It rose now
to words.
"Joe, a mule is to a hoss what a woman is to a man. Ever notice? The
difference ain't so much in what they do as what they don't do. Me
speakin' personal, I'll take a lot from any hoss and lay it to jest
plain spirit; but a mule can make me mad by standin' still and doin'
nothing but wablin' them long ears as if it understood things it wasn't
goin' to speak about. Y' always feel around a mule as if it knew
somethin' about you--had somethin' on you--and was laughin' soft and
deep inside. Damn a mule! I remember--"
But here he sank into the steady, voiceless whisper again, the shadow of
a sound rather than the reality. It was ghostly to hear, even by
daylight.
"Will it keep up long?" asked Drew.
"Maybe until he dies."
"I've told you before; it's impossible for him to die."
The doctor made a gesture of resignation.
He explained: "As long as this fever grows our man will steadily weaken;
it shows that he's on the downward path. If it breaks--why, that means
that he will have a chance--more than a chance--to get well. It will
mean that he has enough reserve strength to fight off the shock of the
wound and survive the loss of the blood.
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