The good dinner was all ready, but it did not set Frank straight.
He lay down soon after, and Fred really for once felt sorry that his bed was one of green boughs. He sat till nearly morning beside his friend, who was now in a high and raging fever.
From the very first Frank's illness assumed a vigorous type. He was quite delirious. Sometimes, indeed, it took all Quambo's force to keep him still. He raved too, talking constantly of home and of his mother, and even of his dead and gone father. Or at one moment he seemed to be far away among the stormy seas of Antarctic regions, and the next sailing in the little yacht Water Baby, with Toddie and Fred, on the wild and beautiful coast around Methlin.
For a whole week he continued thus, being nursed and watched constantly by Fred and the others. Then he became quieter, and his friend feared weaker also. His ravings now were far less wild. It almost broke Fred's heart to hear him talking so constantly about his mother and Toddie. It was always mother now or Toddie.
He grew weaker and weaker, in spite of all they could do for him.
But he knew those around him now, and was very seldom delirious. When he did sink into a moment's raving lethargy, he would keep repeating over and over again the words, "I'm going home; oh, I want so much to go home!"
One evening, while seated beside him, Fred thought he could see the hand of death busy on his face; then he broke down entirely, and sat sobbing and weeping beside Frank's couch of boughs, as if surely his heart would break.
Frank awoke, and seeing Fred crying, stretched out his hand to him.
"Don't cry, poor Fred," he said, "We're brothers yet."
"Ay," said Fred, "brothers ever."