“Thank goodness the night’s gone,” exclaimed Ned, who had the last watch. “It seems as if we’d been here a week, instead of a few hours.”
“How is he?” asked Bart of Frank, who had assumed the rôle of doctor.
“No worse, at any rate,” he said, as he felt of his chum’s head.
“Do you think we ought to get a physician?”
“I think we’ll see how he is to-day,” answered Frank. “If he doesn’t get any worse I believe it will work off. I’ll give him some more medicine.”
There must have been some virtue in the pills, for, by noon, Fenn’s skin was much cooler, and he had began to perspire, a sure sign that the fever was broken. His mind, too, was clear.
“What’s the matter? What happened?” he asked. “Was I sick?”
“I guess it was a little touch of sun-stroke,” replied Frank with a laugh. “How do you feel?”
“Pretty good, only weak. I’m hungry and thirsty.”
“That’s a good sign. I guess we can fix you up.”