Tom passed it over, saying solemnly:
"Remember, Jim, you've got to bring a doctor back with you—-if you have to do it at the point of a gun!"
"I'll bring one back with me, if there's one left in Dugout,"
Ferrers promised, fervently.
Fifteen minutes later Jim was on his way. Tim Walsh came in on tip-toe, and seemed afraid to stir lest he make some slight sound to disturb the sleeping sick lad.
"A day or two more will tell the tale, Tim," Tom whispered in the big miner's ear.
"Oh, it isn't as bad as that, sir; it can't be," protested the big fellow in a hoarse whisper. "I reckon Mr. Hazelton is going to get well all right."
"He won't eat anything," said Tom.
"He will when he's hungry, sir."
"Tim, have you ever had any practice in looking after sick people?"
"Quite a bit, sir. When I was a younker I was private in the hospital corps in the Army."