“It's—it's mighty good of you,” he muttered, his eyes blinking.
“What are friends for, Mr Dawes, if they can't be depended upon in times of sickness?”
“Friends?” he gasped.
“Certainly. Am I not your friend?”
“I—I—well, by gosh!” he exploded. “I—I must tell this to Joe. He'll—I beg your pardon, I guess I'm a little flighty. Maybe I'm worse than I think. Delirious or something like that. Say, you don't think it's—it's serious, do you?”
“Of course not. A heavy cold, that's all. The doctor will break it up immediately.”
“Maybe it's the grippe, eh?”
“Possibly.”
“What's my temperature?”
“You mustn't worry, Mr Dawes. It's all right.”