“Yes, that is so!” exclaimed the doctor, a joyous grin wrinkling his face. “The vieja (old lady) speak right. We stay at Honda and give this little fellow my pills.”
“There is sense in your plan,” declared Leighton. “If we can be comfortable—and safe—at Honda, we will stay until we know what is happening away from the river, and until Mr. Parmelee regains his health under your treatment.”
“My dear Mr. Leighton, I assure you,——” began the schoolmaster piteously.
“Don’t be an estolido!” interrupted Miranda bruskly. “Soon you will be all right with my pills. This little vieja, she know—she is very wise.”
Mrs. Quayle’s gray ringlets bobbed deprecatingly at this generous tribute to a hitherto unsuspected sagacity on the part of their modest owner, while Andrew looked more uncomfortable and woebegone than ever.
“Doctor, you are sure that Mr. Parmelee has this miserable fever?” inquired Una anxiously.
“Senorita,” declared the little man, drawing himself up impressively, “I never mistake. I have been doctor when thousand and thousand die of the calentura——”
“Good heavens! Poor, dear Mr. Parmelee!” murmured Mrs. Quayle.
“And I know,” continued Miranda, ignoring the interruption. “I say he have the calentura, the malaria. You will see in the eyes—I will show to you.”
Andrew, prepared for what was coming, eluded his medical tormentor, seeking safety behind the chair of the portly Leighton.