“You old Indian!” said Meredith, tenderly.
Three days later, Tom was rejoiced by symptoms of invigoration in his patient. A telegram came for Harkless, and Meredith, bringing it into the sick room, was surprised to find the occupant sitting straight up on his couch without the prop of pillows. He was reading the day's copy of the “Herald,” and his face was flushed and his brow stern.
“What's the matter, boy?”
“Mismanagement, I hope,” said the other, in a strong voice. “Worse, perhaps. It's this young Fisbee. I can't think what's come over the fellow. I thought he was a rescuing angel, and he's turning out bad. I'll swear it looks like they'd been—well, I won't say that yet. But he hasn't printed that McCune business I told you of, and he's had two days. There is less than a week before the convention, and—” He broke off, seeing the yellow envelope in Meredith's hand. “Is that a telegram for me?” His companion gave it to him. He tore it open and read the contents. They were brief and unhappy.
“Can't you do something? Can't you come down? It begins to look the other way.
“K. H.”
“It's from Halloway,” said John. “I have got to go. What did that doctor say?”
“He said two weeks at the earliest, or you'll run into typhoid and complications from your hurts, and even pleasanter things than that. I've got you here, and here you stay; so lie back and get easy, boy.”
“Then give me that pad and pencil.” He rapidly dashed off a note to H. Fisbee:
“September 5th.