“H. FISBEE.”
Harkless dropped the typewritten sheets with a sigh.
“I suppose I ought to get well,” he said wearily.
“Yes,” said Meredith, “I think you ought; but you're chock full of malaria and fever and all kinds of meanness, and——”
“You 'tend to your own troubles,” returned the other, with an imitation of liveliness. “I—I don't think it interests me much,” he said querulously. He was often querulous of late, and it frightened Tom. “I'm just tired. I am strong enough—that is, I think I am till I try to move around, and then I'm like a log, and a lethargy gets me—that's it; I don't think it's malaria; it's lethargy.”
“Lethargy comes from malaria.”
“It's the other way with me. I'd be all right if I only could get over this—this tiredness. Let me have that pencil and pad, will you, please, Tom?”
He set the pad on his knee, and began to write languidly:
“ROUEN, September 2d.
“Dear Mr. Fisbee: Yours of the 1st to hand. I entirely approve all arrangements you have made. I think you understand that I wish you to regard everything as in your own hands. You are the editor of the 'Herald' and have the sole responsibility for everything, including policy, until, after proper warning, I relieve you in person. But until that time comes, you must look upon me as a mere spectator. I do not fear that you will make any mistakes; you have done very much better in all matters than I could have done myself. At present I have only one suggestion: I observe that your editorials concerning Halloway's renomination are something lukewarm.