"How do I know? Agony and torture—ever since I got wet on that mountain."
Tom knew enough to guess his meaning, and felt Elsley's pulse and forehead.
"I tell you it turns every bone to red-hot iron!" almost screamed he.
"Neuralgia; rheumatic, I suppose," said Tom to himself. "Well, this is not the thing to cure you: but you shall have it to keep you quiet." And he measured him out a small dose.
"More, I tell you, more!" said Elsley, lifting up his head, and looking at it.
"Not more while you are with me."
"With you! Who the devil sent you here?"
"John Briggs, John Briggs, if I did not mean you good, should I be here now? Now do, like a reasonable man, tell me what you intend to do."
"What is that to you, or any man?" said Elsley, writhing with neuralgia.
"No concern of mine, of course: but your poor wife—you must see her."