“Heavens! I hope it won't be as bad as that,” I retorted. “Holland is pretty wet, so they say, but we should be able to find some dry spots.”
She did not laugh. “You know what I mean,” she observed. “To-morrow night at twelve o'clock we shall be far out on the vasty deep.”
“We shall be on the 'Princess Eulalie,'” I answered. “Go to sleep.”
Neither of us spoke the truth. At twelve the following night we were neither “far out on the vasty deep” nor on the “Princess Eulalie.”
My first move after breakfast was to telephone Campbell at his city home. He hailed me joyfully and ordered me to stay where I was, that is, at the hotel. He would be there in an hour, he said.
He was five minutes ahead of his promise. We shook hands heartily.
“You are going to take my prescription, after all,” he crowed. “Didn't I tell you I was the only real doctor for sick authors? Bully for you! Wish I was going with you. Who is?”
“Come to my room and I'll show you,” said I. “You may be surprised.”
“See here! you haven't gone and dug up another fossilized bookworm like yourself, have you? If you have, I refuse—”
“Come and see.”