At the first glance it seemed certain that both Mark and Betty lay dead on the bed. Even the trained eye of the nurse was deceived. But after a stimulant had been administered, Mark recovered semi-consciousness. When he opened his eyes he began to speak in his natural voice; then he laughed—gaily, youthfully.
"That's it, Betty—capital! Pop it over his head! Good! Ha—ha! old Archie, that did you. I say, I am thirsty...."
He imagined that he was at Pitt Hall playing lawn tennis.
Brain fever set in within twenty-four hours. During his delirium he called impatiently for his brother, who came trembling. Mark saw only the boy.
"Why have you stayed away so long?" he asked. "You're not going to leave me, old chap?"
"No, no," stammered Archibald.
"I say, it is jolly seeing you again."
He stretched out his lean, shrunken hand, which Archibald took. Presently Mark's vagabond wits wandered to Lord's Cricket Ground.
"Well played!" he screamed. "A boundary hit, by Jove! That's my brother, you know, old Archie. Isn't he splendid? Isn't he a slogger? There he goes again. What a smite! Well played, Samphire major! Well played, sir—well played!"
The tears fell down Archibald's cheeks.