"Blythe, sir."
"Oh, yes, Blythe. Why aren't you in bed, Blythe?"
"Bed, sir? Why—why, sir—the fact is"—a suspicious huskiness crept into Blythe's voice and his dismal face quivered—"they said as you was dyin', sir——"
"Dying?"
"Yes, sir. The doctor gave you up tonight, sir. An' Miss Oswald—an' that Seattle Sue—they was dog-tired. So—I wanted to be near, sir—when you—pegged out—an' I told 'em to take a rest, an'—an'——"
Here words failed the faithful and tender-hearted Blythe and he began to blubber miserably.
"Why, Blythe! You idiot—you fool, I'm all right! Stop it at once—and turn up the lamp."
Hector was actually laughing at Blythe, with a touch of his old humour. The sight of that doleful face, combined with the assertion that he was dying, had brought back the Big Chief from the edge of the Great Divide.
Blythe, delighted, jumped up, turned up the lamp and hastened out, returning in a moment with Dr. Quick.
"What's this? What's this?" said the doctor, twinkling. "Blythe told me to come quick, because you're coming 'round. I'm Quick, Major, at all times, but never quicker than I've been now."