“Well, the same thing, my boy, and I hope you relieved him—that is, if he was genuine.”
“Oh, he was genuine enough, father,” cried Mark, and his words almost tumbled over one another as he related something of the poor fellow’s plight.
“Tut, tut, tut, tut!” ejaculated Sir James. “Very sad. Very hard for a man to be ill away from home. It would be a charity, doctor, if you saw the poor fellow in the morning to see if you could do anything for him.”
“My dear Sir James, you forget that I am not a professional medico. Of course I am willing enough, and will see the poor fellow, but I gather from what Mark here says that he has passed through all the stages of a jungle fever caught in some part of the Malay Peninsula, that he has been left here by the captain of his ship, and as far as my knowledge goes, the only thing I could recommend would be a sea voyage—say home.”
“He said he didn’t believe he’d live to reach home,” cried Dean quickly.
“Or,” continued the doctor, “a journey inland right up into the cool country away from this tropic malarial port.”
“Ah!” cried Mark excitedly. “That’s what he said, father, and he came to us to—”
Mark stopped short, gazing hard at his father, for a sudden shrinking as to how Sir James would take his words made him for the time being mute.
“Well, my boy, what did he say? Why don’t you go on?”
“I didn’t like to, father,” faltered the boy.