He flung himself from the table and went heavily up the stairs to Dart's room in the attic.
"Come out of that," he said roughly, throwing the door open. "We are going to start right away. You'd better get some breakfast in a hurry if you want any."
"Breakfast?" moaned Dart weakly. "Good God, Mart. Don't say breakfast to me or I'll die."
"What's the matter?" asked Martin roughly and suspiciously. "You weren't sick last night."
He came closer to the huddled figure. Dart's hands were shaking, his face was as white as a sheet.
"It came on sudden," he said faintly. "I—I've had it before. I—I think I'm dying this time. Has Mamma Leland got a Bible?"
Suddenly, before Leland's astonished eyes, the little man began a violent retching and vomiting. Leland went back down the stairs, swearing, and sent Julia with word to Mrs. Leland that Dart was really sick.
Dart got out of bed, his legs trembling under him, and crept to the window, peering out cautiously. Only when he had seen the party leave the house upon skis and webs did he go back to his bed, snatch a bit of plug cut chewing tobacco out from under his pillow and hurl it venemously into the snow.
"A man that will chew that stuff for fun," he groaned creeping back into bed, "ain't safe to have around. Good God, I wonder if I am dying? I might have took too much!"