CHAPTER XVI.
FIGHTING DEATH
“You!” Mr. Linton said.
He had put Norah gently into the rough chair, and turned to Dick Stephenson, who was standing by his father, his lips twitching. They gripped hands silently.
“You can recognise him?”
“I’d know him anywhere,” the son said. “Poor old dad! You think—?”
“I don’t know,” the other said hastily. “Can’t tell until Anderson comes. But I fancy it’s typhoid. You brought the things? Ah!” His eyes brightened as they fell on the leather medicine-case Mrs. Brown had sent, and in a moment he was unstrapping it with quick, nervous fingers..
The Hermit stirred, and gasped for water. He drank readily enough from the glass Mr. Linton held to his lips, while his son supported him with strong young arms. There was not much they could do.
“Anderson should be here before long,” Mr. Linton said. “What time did Billy leave?”
“A little after twelve.”
“What did he ride?”