“Why was that?”
“Because there was no circulation; the blood would stop going round; and you 'd be that way for four hours,—till the sweating took you,—just the same as dead.”
“There, don't go on,—I can't stand it,—my nerves are all ajar already.”
“And then the cramps came on,” continued M'Cormick, in an ecstasy over a listener whose feelings he could harrow; “first in the calves of the legs, and then all along the spine, so that you 'd be bent like a fish.”
“For Heaven's sake, spare me! I've seen some rough work, but that description of yours is perfectly horrifying! And when one thinks it was the glorious old 105th—”
“No, the 103d; the 105th was at Barbadoes,” broke in the Major, testily.
“So they were, and got their share of the yellow fever at that very time too,” said Stapylton, hazarding a not very rash conjecture.
“Maybe they did, and maybe they didn't,” was the dry rejoinder.
It required all Stapylton's nice tact to get the Major once more full swing at the expedition, but he at last accomplished the feat, and with such success that M'Cormick suggested an adjournment within doors, and faintly hinted at a possible something to drink. The wily guest, however, declined this. “He liked,” he said, “that nice breezy spot under those fine old trees, and with that glorious reach of the river before them. Could a man but join to these enjoyments,” he continued, “just a neighbor or two,—an old friend or so that he really liked,—one not alone agreeable from his tastes, but to whom the link of early companionship also attached us, with this addition I could call this a paradise.”
“Well, I have the village doctor,” croaked out M'Cor-mick, “and there's Barrington—old Peter—up at the 'Fisherman's Home.' I have them by way of society. I might have better, and I might have worse.”