“What’s biting him?” muttered Patsy. “Is he going nutty?”
Patsy Garvan hoisted himself out of bed, and when his head had ceased swimming—at least to some extent—he walked over to Chick and gave his shoulder a rude yank.
Chick sat up, rubbing his eyes and pressing his two hands to the back of his head alternately.
“Sick?” asked Patsy.
“I feel pretty raw this morning,” replied Chick, shaking himself.
“Raw?” echoed Patsy. “I feel as if it would take a week’s cooking to make me fit for the table.”
“What’s it all about?” mumbled Chick.
“Something has slipped a cog and put a kink in our differential,” answered Patsy. “We are not in New York, old man. This is the country of the Caribbean Sea, and all the goodness has been drained out of it by the Panama Canal. Get up!”
“All right!”
Chick rolled out and stretched his arms, while Patsy softly opened the door of Nick Carter’s room.