“I don’t feel so well,” groaned Bob, whose face was becoming pale. “I can’t get my breath without wheezing. And my stomach seems out of order.”
Dr. Rander happened to be near when Bob complained, and lost no time in attending to the youth.
“You probably have soroche, or mountain sickness,” he said, noting that Bob’s pulse was unusually rapid. “Do you think you can keep on to the next town?”
“Sorry, but I’m afraid I’ll have to lie down somewhere.” The stricken Bob was visibly becoming worse with every minute.
“Wonder if I’ll have another touch of mountain sickness?” mused Joe, as his friend stretched out on a blanket that Dr. Rander had spread on the hard ground.
There was nothing to do but wait for the youth to recover. The old man explained that often patients remained ill for several days, and that there was a possibility of Bob’s sickness being lengthy.
In view of this, they thought it best to make camp and prepare to stay as long as necessary. There was no use making arrangements to continue the journey until Bob’s condition improved.
“Here, take this pill.” Dr. Rander held a little white tablet and a cup of water. “It will make you well sooner than anything else.”
But it was not soon enough for Bob. All the remainder of that day he moaned on with a splitting headache and terrible nausea. It was worse, he said, than sea sickness, of which he had experienced a touch on his first ocean voyage.