ERCY found himself so ill the next morning, that he was obliged to send for his physician, Dr. Sydney.
Ever since his return from South America, he had been losing strength and flesh, and a dull ache in his side, and darting pains throughout his entire body had rendered his nights restless, and his days full of lassitude. His physician had answered him that it was a "touch of malaria, contracted in the beastly climate of South America," and Percy had relied on quinine and time to effect a cure.
(We all know how customary it is in these days for physicians to designate any puzzling ailment by the convenient and indefinable term of malaria.)
But this morning, when Dr. Sydney was called to his patient, he decided that something more serious, and tangible than a touch of malaria was imminent.
Percy had been suffering from a hard chill during the night, which was now succeeded by a high fever, and acute pain in his side. He was sitting in his chair by the window—dressed as if to go out.
"My dear fellow, this will never do!" Dr. Sydney cried. "You are on the eve of a serious sickness, I fear, and you must be put to bed, and place yourself under treatment."
"Pshaw—nothing of the kind!" Percy answered. "I have taken cold, and beside, I am worn out with worry over some matters. That is all."
"H'm! then why did you send for me, if you know so much better about it than I do!" growled the old physician.
"Simply, because I want you to brace me up, and get me in condition to take a short trip on business this afternoon."
"A trip, business!" echoed Dr. Sydney, gazing at Percy over his spectacles. "Why, if you are not insane you will at once give up that idea. You will not be fit to leave your room under a week, if you do in that time: and you must have a good nurse, and keep perfectly quiet until you are out of this."