"I should have said nothing so vulgar, Bones," she retorted. "And was it malaria?"
"Ah," said Hamilton triumphantly, "I was too much of a gentleman to hint that it wasn't. Press the question, Pat."
Bones shrugged his shoulders and cast a look of withering contempt upon his superior.
"In the execution of one's duty, dear Miss Patricia H," he said, "the calibre of the gun that lays a fellow low, an' plunges his relations an' creditors into mournin', is beside the point. The only consideration, as dear old Omar says, is—
"'The movin' finger hits, an', havin' hit,
Moves on, tum tumty tumty tay,
And all a feller does won't make the slightest difference.'"
"Is that Omar or Shakespeare?" asked the dazed Hamilton.
"Be quiet, dear. What was the illness, Bones?"
"Measles," said Hamilton brutally, "and German measles at that."
"Viciously put, dear old officer, but, nevertheless, true," said Bones buoyantly. "But when the hut's finished, I'll return good for evil. There's goin' to be a revolution, Miss Patricia Hamilton. No more fever, no more measles—health, wealth, an' wisdom, by gad!"
"Sunstroke," diagnosed Hamilton. "Pull yourself together, Bones—you're amongst friends."