"I'll bet he's at the Payson ranch this minute," he thought, as he made for Van's room, but the sick musician was lying on his face, breathing heavily.
"Well, what's the matter, anyway?" said Perkins, his suspicions fading.
"I don't know," groaned Van. "It came on all of a sudden at the theatre. The pain is here on my right side. Gee whiz, it knocks me out!"
"Shan't I get a doctor?" asked the leader. "What do you think it is?"
"Of course," moaned the sufferer, "it may be appendicitis,—I don't think that could hurt more,—but it can hardly be anything like that. I've taken the ginger, and it will set me up, probably."
"You ought to have a doctor look at you, though. It's dangerous to put it off," urged Perkins.
"No," said Van. "I'll stick it out to-night, and if I'm not better to-morrow, why, you may get one. Never mind me, Ted. Where is the gang?"
"They're all down in the Grotto."
"Go on and join them; don't stay here, it isn't necessary. I'll be all right, I say, and I can ring if I'm not. Come in in the morning, won't you?"
"Sure. The train goes at ten-fifteen, you know. We can't get along without you very well."