CHAPTER XI.
THE FATHER AND SON.
Sam was always up at the earliest light, and busied himself about the tent, preparing breakfast, which was generally ready before Mr. Gilman woke. The first warning he had of his father’s illness was seeing him toss restlessly on the earthen floor of their tent, moaning and muttering in his sleep.
“I’d lie by to-day, if I was you, father”—he said, bringing a tin cup of coffee, as Mr. Gilman sat up with a start, and looked wildly around him. “I can wash that pile out alone, and to-morrow’s Sunday. One day’s rest will set you right up again.”
“Who’s talking about resting! I don’t want rest! I ain’t sick, I tell you, I ain’t sick, who said I was?”
Sam was still more alarmed at the quick, almost fierce, manner in which his father spoke. “Nobody said so, sir,” he answered as quietly as he could. “Only you know how tired you were last night, and you talked some in your sleep.”
“Did I? What did I say?” Mr. Gilman began dressing with trembling hands, the matted hair falling over his thin, sunburnt face, and his blood-shot eyes glaring around the tent, with the wildness of fever. “What did I say, Sam—why don’t you answer me? Did I tell you somebody had stolen every cent? Don’t let them know it, Sam, the rest of them, will you? I mean it shall be two thousand dollars before the week’s out. Some rascal or other will track it yet—I know they will. There’s Tucker, don’t tell him; he wanted to know yesterday, how things stood. His pile don’t grow so fast just by hard work,—yes, it’s all gone, every cent—ain’t it hard, Sam?”
“I guess you’re mistaken, father,” Sam said, soothingly. “It was all right last night, don’t you remember? If I was you, I’d just drink some coffee and lay down awhile—you’ll remember all about it by-and-by. It ain’t time to go to work yet, any way.”
But Mr. Gilman would not be persuaded to lie quietly. He insisted on following Sam to the pile of earth they had prepared for washing out, and plunged knee-deep into the water, as if the coolness would take way the fever heat. It was the very worst thing he could have done, for the fever was followed by chills, and though he worked more than an hour with unnatural strength, it left him at once, and he laid down as helpless as a child, in the very glare of a hot sun.