Just what the man expected to happen to the dormant wheat plants, in mid-winter, Hiram could not imagine. But it was a fact that going out at all hours of the night and in all kinds of weather brought its own punishment.
Battick lived so much like a hermit anyway that had it not been for Hiram's interest in him, the man might never have seen spring again and the revival of his wonderful wheat. One day the young farm manager suddenly remembered that he had not seen or heard from Battick for at least three days.
The thought somewhat startled him; yet he started along the county road toward the old Pringle place with no real fear that Battick was in trouble. When he mounted the low steps to the rickety front porch where he had taken refuge from the rain the first night he had come to this neighborhood, Hiram was startled by hearing a faint cry from inside the house.
"Hi!" he shouted. "That you, Mr. Battick?"
There followed another murmuring cry. Hiram put his hand on the knob of the door and rattled it. The door, of course, was locked. But he heard the pleading call again. This was no time for etiquette. Nor did he worry about Battick's gun.
"It's I, Mr. Battick! Hiram Strong!" he shouted, and then threw his shoulder against the door. The frail bar to his entrance gave way immediately. He was almost catapulted into the room.
"What's up?" he cried seeing nobody in the living room of the house.
"I'm down, Mr. Strong," croaked Battick's voice from the bedroom.
"For pity's sake! what is the matter?" demanded the boy, and hurried to see.
Battick was stretched upon his bed, covered in his blankets and shaking with a chill. He could scarcely speak above a whisper and his face was fiery-red with fever.